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1 BEING'S 
SKETCH BOOK 



CHALMERS 





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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




WASHINGTON IRVING. 



The Sketch Book 



BY 



Masbinoton 1Tn>tng 



EDITED BY 

JAMES CHALMERS, Ph. D., LL. D. 

PRESIDENT, STATE NORMAL SCHOOL 
PLATTEVILLE, WISCONSIN 



"Washington Irving! Why, gentlemen, I don't go upstairs to bed 
two nights out of the seven without taking Washington Irving under 
my arm." — Charles Dickens. 

" I have glanced over the Sketch Book. It is positively beautiful." 
— Sir Walter Scott. 







SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY 

Boston NEW YORK Chicago 

1896 

C^ 1 • 






COPYRIGHT, 1896, 
bt Silver, Burdett & Company. 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



An experience of many years covering the entire range 
of teaching, from the one-room country school through the 
different grades of village, city and normal schools, the 
college and the university, has convinced me — and that 
conviction has deepened and strengthened with the experi- 
ences and observations of each succeeding year — that the 
greatest educational service to the human race consists in 
the teaching of reading. He who has learned to read is 
already well educated. He who has not learned to read, 
though he have passed all the tests of the universities, has 
not even the elements of a liberal education. 

It has come to be one of the best established facts of 
psychological knowledge that reading more powerfully 
affects, directs and controls human thinking than does any 
other human experience or influence. He who daily reads 
his Plato, his IJew Testament, his Matthew Arnold, his 
Emerson, and comes to require daily an hour's thinking- 
together with such minds as these, as regularly as he requires 
his daily bread, will, in the course of years, become so 
illumined with the spirit of sweetness and light, so warmed 
with the intensity of thought-heat, and so exalted with a 
divine spirituality, that he will find himself, at times, on 



iv Editor's Preface. 

the very mount of transfiguration, walking and talking 
with God and seeing him face to face. 

There is no literature more thoroughly permeated with 
this spirit of sweetness and light, hopefulness and faith, 
than is our own American literature. It is a literature of 
optimism and of transcendentalism. It has faith in 
Divine Providence, faith in humanity, faith in the great 
law of compensation, without which faith it is impossible 
for any man to work up to his highest capacity. A more 
healthy, manly literature has never been produced. At 
the same time it is comparatively free from the subtleties 
and obscurities of some of the best English and continental 
writers of the optimistic, transcendental school. It is there- 
fore better adapted to the intellectual and spiritual needs 
of the average American reader, and especially of Ameri- 
can youth, than is any other literature. 

One of the highest literary services which teachers and 
parents can perform for American youth is to inculcate a 
just appreciation of American authors and of American 
literature — I had almost said the highest literary service, 
but there is at least one higher : the book of highest liter- 
ary value to the English-speaking race is the English 
Bible. The highest literary service which parents and 
teachers can perform for the youth is to teach them the 
English Bible. 

There is much popular misconception regarding the 
beauties of the Bible, and its attractiveness and interest as 
a subject of study. Many who read and study the best of 



Editors Prefaoe. v 

other works of literature as a pleasure, read and study the 
books of the Bible as a duty simply. This is wrong. All 
good literature is to be enjoyed. The Bible is an abun- 
dant storehouse of the richest literature. It is the most 
priceless literary heritage of our race. It should be en- 
joyed. Is it something having the form of fiction that is 
wanted? The beautiful story of Ruth or the exciting re- 
cital of Esther will furnish as interesting and captivating a 
tale as Romola, or Kenilworth, or The Marble Faun. Is 
it poetry? The lyrics of David surpass in sweetness and 
beauty, in poetic fragrance and spiritual inspiration, the 
finest lyrics of Tennyson. Is it an essay? Not even Addi- 
son, the prince of English essayists, surpasses in his most 
exquisite papers the literary finish and strength and beauty 
of the Epistle to the Hebrews — an essay which, as a piece 
of writing, is hard to beat in any literature. Is it a drama? 
The Book of Job is a nobler one than Hamlet, and presents 
a deeper psychological study and a more awful soul-strug- 
gle. Is it a great epic? The magnificence and the sub- 
limity of Milton's Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained 
cannot compare with the majestic magnificence and the 
sublimer sublimity of Isaiah's Great Prophecy of Israel's 
Restoration. 

And so in every department of literature the Bible con- 
tains the best examples of the highest merit. We find 
nothing else that can compare with it as a work of litera- 
ture, and nothing else that has had such a profound and 
far-reaching influence upon English thought, upon the 



vi Editor's Preface. 

English language and upon English literature — not even 
Chaucer — not even Shakespeare. 

But, next to the study of the Bible, I know of nothing 
more healthful and invigorating for our American youth 
than an appreciative study of Irving and Hawthorne, Bry- 
ant and Whittier, Holmes and Longfellow, Lowell and 
Emerson. And, just as among Englishmen Sir Walter 
Scott wrote the best prose-fiction for boys and girls, so 
among Americans Washington Irving has done this same 
service best. Every American boy and girl, in and out of 
school, should read Irving. And so should the older boys 
and girls. 

Although this volume is prepared especially for school 
use, it will be found to be equally well adapted to the 
needs of the general reader. It is taken for granted that 
pupils and readers will have ready access to the usual 
books of reference, such as the standard dictionaries, en- 
cylopaedias, histories and biographies. The ability to use 
such books of reference repeatedly and with the minimum 
loss of time is one of the chief evidences of scholarly 
equipment. 



James Chalmers. 



State Normal School, 

Platteville, Wis., January, 1896. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGK. 

Appreciations . . ix 

Selected Critical and Biographical References . xii 

In the Churchyard at Tarrytown, a Sonnet . . xiii 

Facsimile MS. Page of the Sketch Book . . . xiv 

Washington Irving. — After a Sketch from Life . xv 

Advertisement to the First American Edition . . 1 

Advertisement to the First English Edition . . 2 

Preface to the Revised Edition 3 

The Author's Account of Himself 9 

The Voyage 12 

Roscoe 19 

The Wife 26 

Rip Van Winkle 34 

English Writers on America 53 

^Rural Life in England 63 

The Broken Heart 70 

The Art of Book-Making 76 

A Royal Poet 83 

The Country Church 97 

—The Widow and Her Son 103 

A Sunday in London Ill 

^.The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap .... 113 

The Mutability of Literature 125 

-*"*-Rural Funerals 136 

_- The Inn Kitchen 148 

-:The Spectre Bridegroom 151 

^Westminster Abbey 167 

—'Christmas 179 

vii 



viii Contents. 

PAGE. 

The Stage Coach 185 

Christmas Eve 192 

Christmas Day 204 

The Christmas Dinner 218 

London Antiques 233 

Little Britain 239 

Stratford-on-Avon 254 

Traits of Indian Character 273 

Philip of Pokanoket 285 

John Bull 302 

The Pride of the Tillage 314 

The Angler 323 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 332 

L'Envoy 365 

Appendix 368 

Notes 372 



APPRECIATIONS. 



" Every reader has his first book. I mean to say, one book 
among all others, which in early youth first fascinates his im- 
agination, and at once excites and satisfies the desires of his 
mind. To me this first book was the Sketch-Book of Washing- 
ton Irving. I was a school-boy when it was published, and read 
each succeeding number with ever-increasing wonder and de- 
light; spell-bound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tender- 
ness, its atmosphere of reverie, nay, even by its gray-brown 
covers, the shaded letters of the titles, and the fair, clear type, 
which seemed an outward symbol of the style. 

" How many delightful books the same author has given us, 
written before and since — volumes of history and fiction, most 
of which illustrate his native land, and some of which illumine it, 
and make the Hudson, I will not say as classic, but as romantic 
as the Rhine! Yet still the charm of the Sketch-Book remains 
unbroken; the old fascination still lingers about it; and when- 
ever I open its pages, I open also that mysterious door which 
leads back into the haunted chambers of youth." — Heniiy W. 
Longfellow, Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, 
Bee. 15, 1S59. 

"Others will speak of his literary fame — of his style — as 
graceful and delicate as that of Charles jSTodier — and of the 
chords of ever-sensitive feeling he has touched — which cause 
the Sketch-Book to be more widely read, in its original tongue, 
than any book in our language except the Vicar of Wakefield. 
I would fain, if present, speak of his genial and constant friend- 
ship—of his faith in man — arid of his readiness to find good in 
everything." — George Sumner, Letter of Bee. 15, 1859. 

"He wrote with such a charm and grace of expression, that 
the mere fascination of his style would often prove powerful 



x Appreciations. 

enough to keep the reader intent upon his pages, when the sub- 
jcet itself might not happen to interest him. His humor was of 
a peculiar quality, always delicate in character, and yet enriched 
with a certain quaint poetic coloring, which added greatly to its 
effect. His graver writings have no less beauty, and several of 
them prove that, as is often the case with men who possess a 
large share of humor, he was no less a master in the pathetic, 
and knew how to touch the heart." — New York Evening Post, 
Nov. 29, 1859. 

" But how much real poetry and how much real pathos has he 
not written! We do not believe that there was ever such a 
description of the song of a bird, as his description of the soar- 
ing of a lark in Buckthorn; and the poor old widow in the Sketch- 
Book, who, the first Sunday after her son's burial, comes to 
church with a few bits of black silk and ribbon about her, the 
only external emblem of mourning which her poverty allowed 
her to make, is a picture that we can never look at through his 
simple and graphic periods without sobbing like a child. Poet 
he is, and that too of the best and noblest kind, for he stores our 
memories with lovely images and our hearts with human affec- 
tions. If you would learn to be kinder and truer, if you would 
learn to bear life's burden manfully, and make for yourself sun- 
shine where half your fellow-men see nothing but shadow and 
gloom, read and meditate Goldsmith and Irving." — George 
Washington Greene, Biographical Studies. 

" He was the one man whom the whole country loved. There 
has been no character since Washington so symmetrical, and no 
career more rounded and complete. With Irving, the man and 
the author were one. The same twinkling humor, untouched by 
personal venom; the same sweetness, geniality, and grace; the 
same transparency and childlike simplicity, which endeared the 
writer to his readers, endeared the man to his friends. Gifted 
with a happy temperament, with that cheerful balance of thought 
and feeling which begets the sympathy which prevents bitter 
animosity, he lived through the sharpest struggles of our politics, 
not without interest, but without bitterness, and with the ten- 
derest respect of every party." — George William Curtis, 
Harper's Weekly, Dec. 17, 1S59. 



Appreciations. xi 

" If to convey the peculiar grace that his presence inspired, be 
beyond the power of description, yet its influence upon others is 
less difficult to represent. In his household, affection seemed to 
pervade the very atmosphere. The kindliest, the tenderest 
language, to each and to all; the joyous welcome that awaited a 
distant relative visiting Sunnyside; the quiet, but constant care 
manifested for stranger guests; the happy, tranquil face of an 
elder brother; the cheerful, ' pleased alacrity' of the servants; 
all seemed the very reflex of such a man: — so good, so true, so 
modest, so eminent. 'It seems,' said a lady after a visit to 
Washington Irving's family, ' as though I had been in heaven for 
a little while.' " — Fkederick S. Cozzens, The New York Ledger, 
Dec. 17, 1859. 



SELECTED CEITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES. 

On Irving. 

North American Review, Vol. 28, p. 103. 

Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, p. 694 and Vol. 45, p. 396. 

Blackwood's Magazine, Vol. 6, p. 556. 

Edinburgh Beview, Vol. 37, p. 337. 

Scribner's Monthly, Vol. 11, p. 799. 

Harper's Magazine, Vol. 24, p. 349. 

LittelVs Living Age, Vol. 37, p. 646 and Vol. 65, p. 298. 

On the Sketch Book. 

North American Beview, Vol. 9, p. 322. 
Edinburgh Monthly Beview, Vol. 4, p. 303. 
Edinburgh Beview, Vol. 34, p. 160. 
Quarterly Beview, Vol. 25, p. 50. 
Monthly Beview, Vol. 93, p. 198. 
London Magazine, Vol. 10, p. 401. 
Western Beview, Vol. 2, p. 244. 



xii 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. 

A Sonnet on Washington Irving. 

BY U. W. LONGFELLOW. 



Here lies the gentle humorist, who died 
In the bright Indian summer of his fame! 
A simple stone, with but a elate and name, 

Marks his secluded resting-place beside 

The river that he loved and glorified. 
Here in the autumn of his days he came, 
But the dry leaves of life were all aflame 

With tints that brightened and were multiplied. 

How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! 

Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, 

Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; 

Dying, to leave a memory like the breath 
Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, 
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. 



xiii 



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ADVERTISEMENT 



FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 



The following writings are published on experiment; should 
they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will 
have to contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in 
his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and 
vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, promise a regular plan, nor 
regular periods of publication. Should he be encouraged to pro- 
ceed, much time may elapse between the appearance of his num- 
bers; and their size will depend on the materials he may have 
on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctuations of his 
own thoughts and feelings ; sometimes treating of scenes before 
him, sometimes of others purely imaginary, and sometimes wan- 
dering back with his recollections to his native country. He 
will not be able to give them that tranquil attention necessary to 
finished composition; and as they must be transmitted across the 
Atlantic for publication, he will have to trust to others to cor- 
rect the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, how- 
ever, with all their imperfections, be well received, he cannot con- 
ceal that it would be a source of the purest gratification; for 
though he does not aspire to those high honors which are the 
rewards of loftier intellects, yet it is the dearest wish of his 
heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble, corner in 
the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen. 

London, 1819. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. 



The following desultory papers are part of a series written in 
this country but published in America. The author is aware of 
the austerity with which the writings of his countrymen have 
hitherto been treated by British critics; he is conscious, 
too, that much of the contents of his papers can be inter- 
esting only in the eyes of American readers. It was not his in- 
tention, therefore, to have them reprinted in this country. He 
has, however, observed several of them from time to time in- 
serted in periodical works of merit, and has understood that it 
was probable that they would be published in a collective form. 
He has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them for- 
ward himself, that they may at least come correctly before the 
public. Should they be deemed of sufficient importance to 
attract the attention of critics, he solicits for them that courtesy 
and candor which a stranger has some right to claim who pre- 
sents himself at the threshold of a hospitable nation. 

February, 1820. 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 



The following papers, with two exceptions, were written 
in England, and formed but part of an intended series, for which 
I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a 
plan, however, circumstances compelled me to send them piece- 
meal to the United States, where they were published from time 
to time in portions or numbers. It was not my intention to 
publish them in England, being conscious that much of their 
contents would be interesting only to American readers, and in 
truth, being deterred by the severity with which American pro- 
ductions had been treated by the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in 
this occasional manner, they began to find their way across the 
Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the 
London Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London book- 
seller intended to publish them in a collective form. I deter- 
mined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, that they might 
at least have the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I 
accordingly took the printed numbers which I had received from 
the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, 
from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left 
them with him for examination, informing him that should he 
be inclined to bring them before the public, I had materials 
enough on hand for a second volume. Several days having 
elapsed without any communication from Mr. Murray, I ad- 
dressed a note to bim, in which I construed his silence into a 
tacit rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had 
left with him might be returned to me. The following was his 
reply: 

My dear Sik, — 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind intentions 
towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for your most 
tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with workpeople at this 



4 Preface. 

time, and I have only an office to transact business in ; and yesterday I was 
wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present 
work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of it which 
would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, without 
which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will do all I can to 
promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future 
plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any 
further prosecution of the matter, had the question of republica- 
tion in Great Britain rested entirely with me ; but I apprehended 
the appearance of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. 
Archibald Constable as publisher, having been treated by him with 
much hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh; but first I deter- 
mined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being 
encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced 
from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the 
favorable opinion he had expressed to others of my earlier writ- 
ings. I accordingly sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch- 
Book in a parcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, 
hinting that since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his 
hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which made 
the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me; I begged 
him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I had forwarded 
to him, and, if he thought they would bear European republica- 
tion, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be 
the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's ad- 
dress in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in 
the country. By the very first post I received a reply, before he 
had seen my work. 

"I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter reached 
Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse 
with Constable, and do all in my power to forward your views — 
I assure you nothing will give me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the 
quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient 
good will which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a 
way of aiding me. 



Pre/act . 5 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be 
set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, 
and amply furnished with all the necessary information. The ap- 
pointment of the editor, for which ample funds were provided, 
would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reason- 
able prospect of further advantages. This situation, being ap- 
parently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, 
he over, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a political 
bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that the tone it was 
desired to adopt might not suit me. " Yet I risk the question," 
added he, " because I know no man so well qualified for this im- 
portant task, and perhaps because it will necessarily bring you to 
Edinburgh. If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep 
the matter secret, and there is no harm done. ' And for my love 
I pray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could 
be made to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, addressing 
Castle Street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I am just 
come here, and have glanced over the Sketch-Book. It is posi- 
tively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, if it be 
possible. Some difficulties there always are in managing such a 
matter, especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as 
much as we possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, which 
underwent some modifications in the copy sent : — 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I 
had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty ; 
but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that 
warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. Your 
literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a 
much higher opinion of my talents than I have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly un- 
fitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political 
opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. 
"My whole course of life," I observed, " has been desultory, and 
I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipu- 
lated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents, 
such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as 
I would those of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring 



6 Preface. 

me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular ser- 
vice as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack. 

"I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun; 
writing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift 
my residence and write whatever is suggested by objects before 
me, or whatever rises in my imagination; and hope to write 
better and more copiously by and by. 

11 1 am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of an- 
swering your proposal than by showing what a very good-for- 
nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable feel inclined 
to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he will en- 
courage me to further enterprise ; and it will be something like 
trading with a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at 
one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another 
time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declin- 
ing what might have proved a troublesome duty. He then re- 
curred to the original subject of our correspondence; entered into 
a detail of the various terms upon which arrangements were 
made between authors and booksellers, that I might take my 
choice; expressing the most encouraging confidence of the suc- 
cess of my work, and of previous works which I had produced 
in America. " I did no more," added he, " than open the 
trenches with Constable; but I am sure if you will take the trou- 
ble to write to him, you will find him disposed to treat your 
overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of 
consequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in London in 
the course of a month, and whatever my experience can command 
is most heartily at your command. But I can add little to 
what I have said above, except my earnest recommendation to 
Constable to enter into the negotiation." l 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had 
determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to 

1 I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph in Scott's 
letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our correspond- 
ence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent 
Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father's poems 
published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; showing the " nigromancy " of 
the American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. 
Scott observes : " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's name for 



Preface. 7 

throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink 
or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, 
and soon received a reply : — 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in 
Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one's 
own account; for the booksellers set their face against the circu- 
lation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. 
But they have lost the art of altogether damming up the road in 
such cases between the author and the public, which they were 
once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's Uoly 
War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding's man- 
sion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to 
the British public to be admired by them, and I would not say 
so unless I really was of that opinion. 

"If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called 
Blackwoo&s Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of 
your works in the last number : the author is a friend of mine, 
to whom I have introduced you in your literary capacity. His 
name is Lockhart, a young man of very considerable talent, and 
who will soon be intimately connected with my family. My 
faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and illus- 
trated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consider- 
ation of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more 

so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 



And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London 

about the middle of the month, and promise myself great pleas- 
ure in once again shaking you by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in Lon- 
don as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown 
to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which a work is 
trumpeted into notice. Still some attention had been called to it 

the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am 
not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with 
much more of papa's folly than she would ever otherwise have learned; for I 
had taken special care they should never see any of those things during their 
earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a 
feather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe 
— in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons." 



8 Preface. 

by the extracts which had previously appeared in the Literary 
Gazette, and by the kind words spoken by the editor of that 
periodical, and it was getting into fair circulation, when my 
worthy bookseller failed before the first month was over, and the 
sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for 
help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than 
Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his 
favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to under- 
take the future publication of the work which he had previously 
declined. A further edition of the first volume was struck off 
and the second volume was put to press, and from that time 
Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in all his deal- 
ings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had obtained 
for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Book- 
sellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, 
I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that I am but 
discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the 
memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obli- 
gations to him. — But who of his literary contemporaries ever ap- 
plied to him for aid or counsel that did not experience the most 
prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ! 

W. I. 

SUNNYSIDE, 1848. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 



I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out 
of her shel was turned ef tsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced 
to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from 
his owne country is in a short time transformed into so mon- 
strous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his 
manners, and to live where he can, not where he would. 

Lyly's Euphues. 



I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child 
I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery 
into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, 
to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument 
of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended 
the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were 
spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made 
myself familiar with all its places famous in history or 
fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had 
been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbor- 
ing villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by 
noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their 
sages and great men. I even journeyed one long sum- 
mer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, whence I 
stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and 
was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises 

9 



10 The Sketch-Booh. 

of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the 
pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, 
bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes would I 
gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagin- 
ation to the ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this 
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served 
to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my 
own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine 
scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere 
its gratification, for on no country have the charms of 
nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, 
like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their 
bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fer- 
tility ; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their soli- 
tudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous 
verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence 
to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts 
forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the 
magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — no, 
never need an American look beyond his own country for 
the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of 
art, the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint 
peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native coun- 
try was full of youthful promise : Europe was rich in the 
accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the 
history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was 
a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of re- 
nowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot- 
steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to 
meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from 
the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself 
among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I 
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost 



The Author } s Account of Himself. 11 

withered by the shade into which they cast me ; for there 
is nothing so baleful to a small* man as the shade of a great 
one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anx- 
ious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the 
works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated 
in America, and man among the number. A great man of 
Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great 
man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of 
the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing 
the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of 
many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, 
were very little people in their own country. I will visit 
this land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race 
from which I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun- 
tries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I 
cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a 
philosopher; but rather with the sauntering gaze with 
which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the 
window of one print-shop to another ; caught sometimes by 
the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of 
caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. 
As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in 
hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, 
I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my 
friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memo- 
randums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart 
almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led 
me aside from the great objects studied by every regular 
traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give 
equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape painter, 
who had travelled on the continent, but, following the bent 
of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and 
corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly 
crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; 
but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum; 
the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples ; and had not a 
single glacier or volcano in bis whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE 



Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting. 
What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 



To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he 
has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary 
absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a 
state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid 
impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the 
hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is 
no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features 
and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly 
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight 
of the land you have left all is vacancy until you step on 
the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle 
and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on 
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and sepa- 
ration. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain," at each 
remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we 
can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last 
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us 
at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from 
the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a 

12 



The Voyage. 13 

doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imagi- 
nary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject 
to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance 
palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in 
the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the 
world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before 
I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my 
view, which contained all most dear to me in life ; what 
vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might take 
place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, 
when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven 
by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may 
return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the 
scenes of his childhood? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, 
and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from 
worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-rail- 
ing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for 
hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to 
gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the 
horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them 
with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undu- 
lating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away 
on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, on 
the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals 
of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the 
grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; 
or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the 
blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I 
had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the 
finny herds that roam its fathomless vallej^s; of the shape- 
less monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the 



14 The Sketch- Book. 

earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin 
the great mass of existence! What a glorious monument of 
human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over 
wind and wave; has brought the ends of the world into 
communion ; has established an interchange of blessings, 
pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries 
of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the 
charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together 
those scattered portions of the human race, between which 
nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a 
distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of 
the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to 
be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 
wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by 
which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 
spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be 
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for 
many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about 
it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been 
0V er — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem- 
pest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the 
deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves have closed over 
them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What 
sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers 
offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often 
has the mistress, the wife, the mother pored over the daily 
news to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the 
deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxi- 
ety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not one 
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that 
may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and 
was never heard of more ! " 



The Voyage. 15 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- 
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the even- 
ing, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began 
to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of 
those sudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the 
serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light 
of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, 
every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was 
particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. 

" As I was once sailing,'' said he, " in a fine stout ship 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs 
which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us 
to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night the 
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any 
object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the 
mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for 
fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on 
the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and 
we were going at a great rate through the water. Sud- 
denly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it 
was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a 
small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. 
The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a 
light. We struck her just amid-ships. The force, the size, 
and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves ; 
we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As 
the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a 
glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from 
her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be swal- 
lowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears 
swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget 
that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship 
about, she was under such headway. We returned, as 
nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had 
anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense 
fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear 
the halloo of any survivors : but all was silent — we never 
saw or heard anything of them more." 



16 The Sketch- Book. 

I confess these stories for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a 
fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. 
Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of 
clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning 
which quivered along the foaming billows, and made the 
succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bel- 
lowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and 
prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship stag- 
gering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed 
miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her 
buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bow 
was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an im- 
pending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and noth- 
ing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her 
from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging 
sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, 
the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored 
in the weltering sea, were frightful As I heard the waves 
rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very 
ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating 
prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, 
the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is 
impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather 
and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all 
her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the 
curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how 
she seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with reveries of a sea voyage, 
for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time 
to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
" land ! " was given from the mast-head. None but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 



The Voyage. 17 

throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom, 
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a vol- 
ume of associations with the very name. It is the land of 
promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood 
has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, tow- 
ering into the clouds: all were objects of intense interest. 
As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with 
a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, 
with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw 
the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the 
taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a 
neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 
people ; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of 
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculat- 
ing brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, 
in deference to his temporary importance. There were 
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between 
the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize 
each other. I particularly noticed one young women of 
humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning 
forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the 
ship, as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for coun- 
tenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I 
heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor 
sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the 
sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was 
fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in 
the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he 
had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that 
he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped 



18 The Sketch-Book, 

on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning 
against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, 
so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection 
did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her 
eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume 
of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, 
and stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men 
of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend 
to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land 
of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the 
land. 



ROSCOE. 

In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
• Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in 
Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal 
and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious 
reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. 
Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled 
with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my 
attention was attracted to a person just entering the room. 
He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might 
once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by 
time — perhaps by care. He had a noble, Roman style of 
countenance; a head that would have pleased a painter; 
and though some slight furrows on his brow showed that 
wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye still 
beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- 
thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a 
different order from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Ros- 
coe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. 

This, then, was an author of celebrity ; this was one of 
those men, whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the 
earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the sol- 
itudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, 
to know European writers only by their works, we cannot 
conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or 

19 



20 The Sketch-Book. 

sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common 
minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before our im- 
aginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations 
of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, 
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my 
poetical ideas; but it was from the very circumstances and 
situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe de- 
rives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to 
notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves, 
springing up under every disadvantage, and working their 
solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. 
Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of 
art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to matu- 
rity ; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance 
productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, 
and though some may perish among the stony places of the 
world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of 
early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root 
even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into 
sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the 
beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the 
very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family con- 
nections, or patronage ; self -prompted, self-sustained, and 
almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved 
his way to eminence, and, having become one of the orna- 
ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his 
talents and influence to advance and embellish his native 
town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has 
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me 
particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent 
as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many 
distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, 
however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their 
own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to 
the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty 



Boscoe. 21 

and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away 
from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to 
indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in 
scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Koscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- 
corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no 
garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth 
into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted 
bowers' by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim 
and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where 
the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat 
of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. 
There is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind 
may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and 
almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellences ; 
but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable 
virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, un- 
fortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would 
be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of 
the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature 
and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the 
coarser plants of daily necessity; and must depend for their 
culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth, 
nor the quickening rays of titled patronage, but on hours 
and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, 
by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in 
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it 
can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his 
own Lorenzo De' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed 
his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven 
the history of his life with the history of his native town, 
and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments 
of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive 
traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He 
found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of 
traffic ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh 
the garden of literature. By his own example and constant 



22 The Sketch- Book. 

exertions he has effected that union of commerce and the 
intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of 
his latest writings: l and has practically proved how beau- 
tifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit 
each other. The noble institutions for literary and scien- 
tific purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and 
are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly 
been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by 
Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly increasing 
opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie 
in commercial importance with the metropolis, it will be 
perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental improve- 
ment among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit 
to the cause of British literature. 

In America we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of 
his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far 
above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the world, 
and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adver- 
sity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the 
reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the 
resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his 
own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to 
neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy asso- 
ciates. He is independent of the world around him. He 
lives with antiquity and posterity; with antiquity, in the 
sweet communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, 
in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude 
of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then 
visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper 
aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, 
in the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I 
was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of 
Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some 
ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we 

1 Address on tne opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



Boscoe. 23 

came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the 
Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had 
an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A 
fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a 
variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a 
broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green 
meadow-land; while the Welsh mountains, blended with 
clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of 
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality 
and literary retirement. The house was now silent and 
deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked 
out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The win- 
dows were closed — the library was gone. Two or three 
ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, whom 
my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like 
visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure 
waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with 
the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was 
dispersed about the country. The good people of the 
vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the 
noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a 
scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine 
something whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions 
of learning. Pygmies rummaging the armory of a giant, 
and contending for the possession of weapons which they 
could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot 
of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the 
quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete au- 
thor ; or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which 
some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black- 
letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the stu- 



24 The Sketch-Booh. 

dious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have 
touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the 
only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his 
muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet 
eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours 
become in the seasons of adversity. When all that is 
worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their 
steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse 
of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, 
these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier 
days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never 
deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to 
Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never have 
been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given 
for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat 
with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it cer- 
tainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, 
of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by 
one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of 
public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a 
man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He 
becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His 
great qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar 
with the common materials which form the basis even of 
the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen 
may regard him merely as a man of business; others as a 
politician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary 
occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some 
points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unosten- 
tatious simplicity of character, which gives the nameless 
grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued 
by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth 
is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of 
letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the resi- 
dence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it 
inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary 
landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the dis- 



Roscoe. 25 

tant scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, 
towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his 
books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and 
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that 
the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript 
from the writer's heart. 



TO MY BOOKS. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal' d comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . . 
The violet bed's not sweeter. 

Middleton. 

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of 
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all 
the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and 
elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to 
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold 
a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and 
dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while 
treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in 
mental force to be the comforter and support of her hus- 
band under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking 
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, 
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling 
around it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- 
tered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, 
that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of 
man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace 
when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into 
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the 
drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. 
"I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, 

26 



The Wife. 27 

"than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, 
there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there 
they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed 
that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to 
retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly 
because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities 
of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him 
for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed 
and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect 
kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at 
home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man 
is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself 
lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like 
some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story 
of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, 
had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had 
been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, 
it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; 
and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in 
every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate 
tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the 
sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an har- 
monious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat 
serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon 
her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the 
delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and 
acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form 
contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond con- 
fiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call 
forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, 
as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helpless- 
ness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path 
of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of 
felicity. 



28 The Sketch-Booh. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have 
embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had 
not been married many months, when, by a succession of 
sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found him- 
self reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his 
situation to himself, and went about with a haggard coun- 
tenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted 
agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was the 
necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; 
for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the 
news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, 
that all was not well with him. She marked his altered 
looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his 
sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all 
her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him 
back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper 
into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more 
torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her 
wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will 
vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those 
lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sor- 
row; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that 
bosom, Avill be weighed down like mine, by the cares and 
miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard 
him through I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" 
— At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For 
God's sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't 
mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me 
almost to madness ! " 

" And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or 
later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence 
may break upon her in a more startling manner, than if 
imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love 
soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving 
yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely 
that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep 
hearts together — an unreserved community of thought and 



T/oe Wife. '29 

feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly 
preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook re- 
serve; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the 
sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

"Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very 
soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a 
beggar! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — 
all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indi- 
gence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her 
down from the sphere in which she might have continued 
to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye — 
the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty? 
she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. 
How can she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. 
Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm 
had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I 
resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his sit- 
uation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, 
but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary 
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to 
the alteration of your circumstances. You must change 
your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across 
his countenance, "don't let that afflict 3^011. I am sure you 
have never placed your happiness in outward show — you 
have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse 
of you for being less splendidly lodged: and surely it does 
not require a palace to be happy with Mary — " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in 
a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the 
dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless 
her! " cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and ten- 
derness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said T, stepping up, and 
grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be 
the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride 



30 The Sketch- Book. 

and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent- ener- 
gies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will 
rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is 
in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which 
lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which 
kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of 
adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is 
— no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this 
world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the 
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to 
deal with ; and following up the impression I had made, I 
finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his 
sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on 
the fortitude of one whose life had been a round of pleas- 
ures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward 
path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and 
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied 
by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks 
it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie the 
next morning without trepidation. He had made the dis- 
closure. 

"And how did she bear it?" 

"Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if 
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor 
girl," added he, "she cannot realize the change we must 
undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract; 
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. 
She feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accus- 
tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practi- 
cally to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its 
petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest 



The Wife. 31 

task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner yon let the world 
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortify- 
ing; but then it is a single misery, and soon over; whereas 
you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the 
day. It is not poverty so much as pretense, that harasses 
a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an 
empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must 
soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and 
you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I 
found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride 
himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform 
to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterward he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had 
been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new 
establishment required few articles, and those of the 
simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late resi- 
dence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he 
said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it 
belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the 
sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he 
had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melt- 
ing tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance 
of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of this 
family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to 
accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 

"And what of her?" asked I: "has anything happened 
to her?" 

"What?" said he, darting an impatient glance, "Is it 
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged 
in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the 
menial concerns of her wretched habitation*?" 



32 The Sketch-Book. 

" Has she then repined at the change?" 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have 
ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tender- 
ness, and comfort ! " 

" Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call yourself 
poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew 
the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that 
woman." 

"Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this 
is her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced 
into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in 
arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the first 
time, known the fatigues of domestic employment — she 
has, for the first time, looked round her on a home destitute 
of everything elegant, — almost of everything convenient ; 
and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, 
brooding over a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I 
could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air 
of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was hum- 
ble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; 
and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had 
overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees 
threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed sev- 
eral pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and 
on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket gate opened 
upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the 
door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of 
music — Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. 
It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touch- 
ing simplicity, a little air of which her husband was pecu- 
liarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- 
ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on 
the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the 



The Wife. 33 

window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and 
Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty 
rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in 
her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole 
countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her 
look so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are 
come! I have been watching and watching for you; and 
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set 
out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and 
I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawber- 
ries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such 
excellent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here. 

— Oh ! " said she, putting her arm within his, and looking 
up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom 

— he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and 
again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his 
eyes ; and he has often assured me, that though the world 
has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has, in- 
deed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a 
moment of more exquisite felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WHITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — 

Cartwright. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New 
York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the 
province, and the manners of the descendants from its 
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did 
not lie so much among books as among men ; for the for- 
mer are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas 
he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich 
in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. 
Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch 
family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under 
a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped 
volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a 
bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 
province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which 
he published some years since. There have been various 
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to 
tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its 
chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a 
little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been 
completely established ; and it is now admitted into all his- 
torical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of 
his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do 
much harm to his memory to say that his time might have 

34 



Hip Van Winkle. 35 

been much better employed in weightier labors. He,however, 
was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though it did 
now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his 
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom 
he felt the truest deference and affection ; yet his errors 
and follies are remembered « more in sorrow than in anger," 
and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to 
injure or offend. But however his memory may be appre- 
ciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose 
good opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain 
biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his like- 
ness on their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a 
chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped 
on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.] 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must 
remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismem- 
bered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen 
away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble 
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every 
hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues 
and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by 
all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. 
When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
evening sky; but, sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting 
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 
whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the 
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green 
of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great 
antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch 
colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the 
beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant 
(may he rest in peace !), and there were some of the houses 



36 The Sketch-Booh. 

of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of 
small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed 
windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good- 
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was 
a descendant of the Yan Winkles who figured so gallantly 
in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accom- 
panied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, 
however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. 
I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man ; 
he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen- 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might 
be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be 
obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the dis- 
cipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are 
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of do- 
mestic tribulation ; and a curtain lecture is worth all the 
sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience 
and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in 
some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if 
so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the 
good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable 
sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, 
whenever they talked those matters over in their evening 
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The 
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever 
he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their 
playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. 
Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was sur- 
rounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clamber- 
ing on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout 
the neighborhood. 



Rip Van Winkle. 37 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 
from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would 
sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a 
Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even 
though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He 
would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours to- 
gether, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill 
and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. 
He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the rough- 
est toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for 
husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences ; the women 
of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, 
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging hus- 
bands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready 
to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to 
doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found 
it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole 
country; everything about it went wrong, and would go 
wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling 
to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the 
cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields 
than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of setting 
in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though 
his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his man- 
agement, acre by acre, until there was little more left than 
a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in 
his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the 
old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping 
like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his 
father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad 
weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 



38 The Sketch-Booh. 

mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got 
with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on 
a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he 
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; but 
his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his 
idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing 
on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was 
incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but 
one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, 
by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his 
shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said noth- 
ing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from 
his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and 
take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in 
truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was 
as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle 
regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked 
upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's 
going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit 
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal 
as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can with- 
stand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's 
tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest 
fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his 
legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many 
a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least 
flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door 
with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows 
with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that 
grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used 
to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting 
a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and 
other idle personages of the village ; which held its sessions 
on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund 



Rip Van Winkle. 39 

portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they 
used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, 
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless 
sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been 
worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound 
discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing 
traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, 
as drawled out by Derrick Van Bumniel, the schoolmaster, 
a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by 
the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely 
they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of 
the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning 
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep 
in the sjiade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell 
the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. 
It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe 
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man 
has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how 
to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or 
related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe 
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry 
puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly 
and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and 
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the 
fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his 
head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break 
in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the 
members all to naught; nor w T as that august personage, 
Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue 
of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with en- 
couraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his 
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and 



40 The Sketch-Booh. 

clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away 
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at 
the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with 
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in per- 
secution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads 
thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live 
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf 
would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and 
if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the 
sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal daj^, Rip 
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of 
the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport 
of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and 
re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, 
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, 
covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of 
a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich 
woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, 
far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, 
with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging 
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 
last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the" other side he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- 
ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the 
reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay 
musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; 
the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over 
the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he 
could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when 
he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van 
Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging 
its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when 



Hip Van Winkle. 41 

he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air ; 
" Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time 
Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked 
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. 
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him;, he 
looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a 
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
under the weight of something he carried on his back. He 
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and 
unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the 
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down 
to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short 
square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled 
beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth 
jerkin strapped round the waist — several pairs of breeches, 
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of 
buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore 
on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. 
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 
Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving 
one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently 
the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip 
every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant 
thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft, between lofty rocks, towards which their rugged path 
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to 
be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers 
which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. 
Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a 
small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, 
over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, 
so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the 
bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his 
companion had labored on in silence ; for though the former 
marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a 
keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was some- 



42 The Sketch-Book. 

thing strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, 
that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a 
company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. 
They were dressed in quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore 
short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their 
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar 
style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were 
peculiar : one had a large beard, broad face, and small pig- 
gish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of 
nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off 
with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various 
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the 
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- 
beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt 
and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and 
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group 
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in 
the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and 
which had been brought over from Holland at the time of 
the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he 
had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of 
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they 
were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals 
of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such 
fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre 
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his 
knees smote together. His companion now emptied the 
contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to 
him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and 
trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and 
then returned to their game. 



Hip Van Winkle. 43 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of 
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and 
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro- 
voked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so 
often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes 
swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell 
into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence 
he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his 
eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle 
was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." 
He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The 
strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine 
— the wild retreat among the rocks — the wo-begone party 
at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked 
flagon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse shall I make to 
Dame Van Winkle!" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and 
the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roysters of the mountain had played a trick upon him, and, 
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. 
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away 
after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and 
shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his 
whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his 
dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in 
the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These moun- 
tain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this 
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall 
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some 
difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the gully up 



44 The Sketch-Booh. 

which he and his companion had ascended the preceding 
evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was 
now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling 
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift 
to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes 
tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted 
their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im- 
penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a 
sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, 
then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and 
whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing 
of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry 
tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in 
their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor 
man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning 
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he 
dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve 
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the 
rusty firelock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, 
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, 
for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in 
the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different 
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all 
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced 
Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish- 
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and 



Rip Van Winkle. 45 

pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which 
he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he 
passed. The very village was altered ; it was larger and 
more populous. There were rows of houses which he had 
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar 
haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the 
doors — strange faces at the windows — everything was 
strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt 
whether both he and the world around him were not be- 
witched. Surely this was his native village, which he had 
left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill moun- 
tains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there 
was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been 
— Rip was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," 
thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting 
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. 
He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- 
starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. 
Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — 
"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, for- 
lorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness over- 
came all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife 
and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with 
his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 
village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some 
of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, 
and over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jon- 
athan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to 
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was 
reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that 
looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a 



46 The Sketch-Book. 

flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stipes 

— all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recog- 
nized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, 
under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but 
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the 
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a 
cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but 
none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people 
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious 
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Ved- 
der, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, 
uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; 
or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents 
of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious- 
looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was 
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections 

— members of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes 
of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect 
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of 
women and children at his heels, soon attracted the atten- 
tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, 
eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The 
orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, in- 
quired "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant 
stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled 
him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his 
ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was 
equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a know- 
ing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, 
made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right 
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself 
before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting 
on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it 



Bip Van Winkle. 47 

were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " what 
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a 
mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in 
the village?" — "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat 
dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, 
and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout broke from the bystanders — "A 
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with 
him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important 
man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed 
a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown 
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? 
The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 
but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, 
who used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he 
is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden 
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, 
but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point 
— others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of 
Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, 
and is now in congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in 
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the 
world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of 
such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he 
could not understand : war — congress — Stony Point ; — 
he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but 
cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van 
Winkle?" 



48 The Sketch-Book. 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle," exclaimed two or three, " Oh, 
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 
the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld the precise counterpart of himself, 
as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and cer- 
tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely 
confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether 
he was himself or another man. In the midst of his 
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he 
was and what was his name ? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " I'm not 
m y S elf — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — 
that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself 
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm 
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I 



am 



!» 



The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- 
heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, 
and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very 
suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked 
hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment 
a fresh comely woman passed through the throng to get 
a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child 
in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. 
" Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man 
won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of rec- 
ollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good 
woman ? " asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, 
and never has been heard of since — his dog came home 
without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried 
away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a 
little girl." 



Hip Van Winkle. 49 

Rip had but one more question to ask; but he put it with 
a faltering voice : — 

" Where's your mother ? " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke 
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England pedler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He 
caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your 
father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old 
Rip Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van 
Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering 
under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! 
it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home 
again, old neighbor — why, where have you been these 
twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and 
put their tongues in their cheeks : and the self-important 
man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had 
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his 
mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a 
general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the 
road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, 
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and 
well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of 
the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and cor- 
roborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He 
assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from 
his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains 
had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discov- 
erer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there 
every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being 



50 The Sketch-Boole. 

permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, 
and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city 
called by his name. That his father had once seen them 
in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hol- 
low of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one 
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant 
peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had 
a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for 
a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that 
used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who 
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he 
was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an heredi- 
tary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. 
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred making 
friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon 
grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took 
his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was 
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a 
chronicle of old times "before the war." It was some 
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, 
or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had 
taken place during his torpor. How that there had been 
a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the 
yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject 
of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen 
of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the 
changes of states and empires made but little impression 
on him; but there was one species of despotism under 
which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat gov- 
ernment. Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck 
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out 
whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of 



Hip Van Winkle. 51 

Dame Van "Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, 
however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and 
cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expres- 
sion of resignation to his fate or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary 
on some points every time he told it, which was, doubt- 
less, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last 
settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a 
man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by 
heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, 
and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that 
this was one point on which he always remained flighty. 
The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a 
thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, 
but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their 
game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen- 
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs 
heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting 
draught out of Rip Yan Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Em- 
peror Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain : the 
subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows 
that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity : — 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity 
of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvel- 
lous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger 
stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson ; all of which 
were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even 
talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and con- 
sistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person 
could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a cer- 
tificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed 
with a cross in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- 
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

D. K." 



52 The Sketch-Book. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of 
Mr. Knickerbocker : — 

The Kaatsberg or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region 
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, 
who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over 
the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They 
were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She 
dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the 
doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. 
She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones 
into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would 
spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and 
send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, 
like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved 
by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing 
the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an 
inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds 
black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied 
spider in the midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe 
betide the valleys! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the 
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking 
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he 
would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the 
bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! 
leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great 
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the 
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which 
abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden 
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the soli- 
tary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves 
of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held 
in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter 
would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a 
time, however, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to the 
garden rock; where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the 
crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, 
but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when 
a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept 
him down the precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the 
stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the 
present day ; being the identical stream known by the name of 
the Kaaters-kill. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing 
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible 
locks : methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, 
and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam. 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the 
literary animosity daily growing up between England and 
America. Great curiosity has been awakened of late with 
respect to the United States, and the London press has 
teemed with volumes of travels through the Republic ; but 
they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge; 
and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the 
constant intercourse between the nations, there is no people 
concerning whom the great mass of the British public 
have less pure information, or entertain more numerous 
prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the 
world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, 
none can equal them for profound or philosophical views 
of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of external 
objects ; but when either the interest or reputation of their 
own country comes in collision with that of another, they 
go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity 
and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an 
illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place implicit 
confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the regions 
beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown islands in 
the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of any other 
tract which other travellers might be apt to picture out 
with the illusions of their fancies ; but I would cautiously 
receive his account of his immediate neighbors, and of 

53 



54 The Sketch-Book. 

those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent 
intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust his 
probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While 
men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been 
sent from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the 
deserts, and to study the manners and customs of barbar- 
ous nations, with which she can have no permanent inter- 
course of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken- 
down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering 
mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to be her 
oracles respecting America. From such sources she is con- 
tent to receive her information respecting a country in a 
singular state of moral and physical development; a coun- 
try in which one of the greatest political experiments in 
the history of the world is now performing; and which 
presents the most profound and momentous studies to the 
statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of Amer- 
ica is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for 
contemplation are too vast and elevated for their capaci- 
ties. The national character is yet in a state of fermen- 
tation ; it may have its frothiness and sediment, but its 
ingredients are sound and wholesome ; it has already given 
proofs of powerful and generous qualities; and the whole 
promises to settle down into something substantially excel- 
lent. But the causes which are operating to strengthen 
and ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirable prop- 
erties, are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are 
only affected by the little asperities incident to its present 
situation. They are capable of judging only of the surface 
of things; of those matters which come in contact with 
their private interests and personal gratifications. They 
miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts 
which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous 
state of society, where the ranks of useful labor are 
crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence 
by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indul- 



English 'Writers 071 America. 55 

gence. These minor comforts, however, are all-important 
in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not 
perceive or will not acknowledge, that they are more than 
counterbalanced among us by great and generally diffused 
blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some un- 
reasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have 
pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold 
and silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in saga- 
city ; and where they were to become strangely and suddenly 
rich, in some unforeseen, but easy manner. The same 
weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations pro- 
duces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become 
embittered against the country on finding that there, as 
everywhere else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must 
win wealth by industry and talent; and must contend with 
the common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of 
an intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or 
from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the 
stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have 
been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and hav- 
ing been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves 
below the surface of good society, and brought up in a 
servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the 
common boon of civility : they attribute to the lowliness of 
others their own elevation ; and underrate a society where 
there are no artificial distinctions, and where, by any 
chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to conse- 
quence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming 
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desir- 
able, would be received with caution by the censors of the 
press ; that the motives of these men, their veracity, their 
opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capa- 
cities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized 
before their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping ex- 
tent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, 
is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human 



56 The Sketch-Book. 

inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with 
which English critics will examine the credibility of the 
traveller who publishes an account of some distant, and 
comparatively unimportant country. How warily will they 
compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the descrip- 
tions of a ruin; and how sternly will they censure any 
inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowl- 
edge : while they will receive, with eagerness and unhesi- 
tating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and ob- 
scure writers, concerning a country with which their own is 
placed in the most important and delicate relations. Nay, 
they will even make these apocryphal volumes text-books, 
on which to enlarge with a zeal and an ability worthy of 
a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack- 
neyed topic; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the 
undue interest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, 
and certain injurious effects which I apprehended it might 
produce upon the national feeling. We attach too much 
consequence to these attacks. They cannot do us any es- 
sential injury. The tissue of misrepresentations attempted 
to be woven round us are like cobwebs woven round the 
limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually out- 
grows them. One falsehood after another falls off of 
itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a 
whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for a 
moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing im- 
portance, and matchless prosperity. They could not con- 
ceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and local, 
but also to moral causes — to the political liberty, the gen- 
eral diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral 
and religious principles, which give force and sustained 
energy to the character of a people; and which, in fact, 
have been the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of 
their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of 
England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by 



English Writers on America. hi 

the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is 
not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and 
reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter 
of a nation's fame ; with its thousand eyes it witnesses a 
nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is na- 
tional glory or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or not; it is, 
perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is instill- 
ing anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful 
nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen with its 
strength. If, in America, as some of her writers are labor- 
ing to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious 
rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers 
for having provoked rivalship and irritated hostility. 
Every one knows the all-pervading influence of literature 
at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions 
of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of 
the sword are temporary; their wounds are but in the flesh, 
and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget 
them. But the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they 
rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever pres- 
ent in the mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the 
most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one overt 
act produces hostilities between two nations ; there exists, 
most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will ; a predis- 
position to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and 
how often will they be found to originate in the mischiev- 
ous effusions of mercenary writers; who, secure in their 
closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the 
venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no 
nation does the press hold a more absolute control than 
over the people of America ; for the universal education of 
the poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There 
is nothing published in England on the subject of our 
country that does not circulate through every part of it. 
There is not a calumny dropped from English pen, nor an 



58 The Sketch-Booh. 

unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that 
does not go to blight good- will, and add to the mass of 
latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the 
fountain-head whence the literature of the language flows, 
how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her 
duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous 
feeling — a stream where the two nations might meet to- 
gether, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, 
however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the 
time may come when she may repent her folly. The pres- 
ent friendship of America may be of but little moment to 
her ; but the future destinies of that country do not admit 
of a doubt ; over those of England there lower some shadows 
of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive : should 
these reverses overtake her, from which the proudest em- 
pires have not been exempt, — she may look back with regret 
at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she 
might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her 
only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of 
her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the people 
of the United States are inimical to the parent country. 
It is one of the errors which have been diligently propagated 
by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable 
political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality 
of the English press ; but, generally speaking, the prepos- 
sessions of the people are strongly in favor of England. 
Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in many parts of the 
Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of 
EngJishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality 
of every family, and too often gave a transient currency to 
the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the country 
there was something of enthusiasm connected with the idea 
of England. We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of 
tenderness and veneration, as the land of our forefathers — 
the august repository of the monuments and antiquities of 
our race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and 
heroes of our paternal history. After our own country, 
there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none 



English Writers on America. 59 

whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none 
towards which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of 
warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever 
there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring 
forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our coun- 
try to show that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept 
alive the sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of 
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken 
forever? Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an 
illusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage ; 
which might have interfered occasionally with our true 
interests, and prevented the growth of proper national 
pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie ! and there 
are feelings dearer than interest — closer to the heart than 
pride — that will still make us cast back a look of regret, 
as we wander farther and farther from the paternal roof, 
and lament the waywardness of the parent that would 
repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 
England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination 
on our part would be equally ill-adjudged. I speak not of a 
prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nor the 
keenest castigation of her slanderers — but I allude to a 
disposition to retaliate in kind ; to retort sarcasm, and in- 
spire prejudice ; which seems to be spreading widely among 
our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a 
temper, for it would double the evil instead of redressing 
the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort 
of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable 
contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into 
petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If Eng- 
land is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or 
the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the integ- 
rity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, 
let us beware of her example. She may deem it her inter- 
est to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose 
of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to 
serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to 



60 The Sketch-Book. 

gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we 
are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end 
to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment — 
a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. 
Our retorts are never republished in England: they fall 
short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous 
and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour the sweet 
flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles 
among its blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate 
through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, 
excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil 
most especially to be dejDrecated. Governed, as we are, en- 
tirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken 
to preserve the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is 
power, and truth is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, know- 
ingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps the foundation 
of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be 
candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions 
of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be en- 
abled to come to all questions of national concern with calm 
and unbiased judgments. From the peculiar nature of our 
relations with England, we must have more frequent ques- 
tions of a difficult and delicate character with her than with 
any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and 
excitable feelings; and as, in the adjusting of these, our 
national measures must ultimately be determined by popu- 
lar sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify 
it from all latent passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from 
every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impar- 
tiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one 
nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exer- 
cising not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those 
more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality 
of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices? They are 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude 
and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each 



English Writers on America. 61 

other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with dis- 
trust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into 
national existence in an enlightened and philosophic age, 
when the different parts of the habitable world, and the 
various branches of the human family, have been inde- 
fatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we 
forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off 
the national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions, 
of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feel- 
ings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is 
really excellent and amiable in the English character. We 
are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must 
take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the 
existing nations of Europe. There is no country more 
worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her con- 
stitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her 
people — their intellectual activity — their freedom of opin- 
ion — their habits of thinking on those subjects which con- 
cern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of 
private life, are all congenial to the American character ; 
and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent; for it is in the 
moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of 
British prosperity are laid ; and however the superstructure 
may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be 
something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, 
and stable in the structure of an edifice, that so long has 
towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding 
all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the 
illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English 
nation without prejudice, and with determined candor. 
While they rebuke the in discriminating bigotry with 
which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every- 
thing English, merely because it is English, let them 
frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. 
We may thus place England before us as a perpetual vol- 
ume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions 
from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors 



62 The Sketch-Book. 

and absurdities which may have crept into the page, 
we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, 
wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national 
character. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past! 

Cowper. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
English character must not confine his observations to the 
metropolis. He must go forth into the country ; he must 
sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, 
villas, farmhouses, cottages ; he must wander through 
parks and gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he 
must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and 
fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with the people 
in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and 
fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of 
elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhab- 
ited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on 
the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or 
general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they de- 
vote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and 
dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival, 
return again to the apparently more congenial habits of 
rural life. The various orders of society are therefore 
diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the 
most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the differ- 
ent ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties 
of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employ- 
ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in 
them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought 
up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 
facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occu- 

63 



64 The SJcetch-Book. 

pation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity 
of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride 
and zeal in the cultivation of his flower garden, and the 
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his 
business, and the success of a commercial enterprise. 
Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to 
pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to 
have something that shall remind them of the green 
aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters 
of the city, the drawing-room window resembles fre- 
quently a bank of flowers : every spot capable of vegeta- 
tion has its grassplot and flower bed ; and every square its 
mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming 
with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to 
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is 
either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand 
engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in 
this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a 
look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to 
be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at the 
moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wander- 
ing to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is cal- 
culating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other 
visits allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis, like 
London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. 
In their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal 
briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold super- 
ficies of character — its rich and genial qualities have no 
time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to 
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold 
formalities and negative civilities of town ; throws off his 
habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. 
He manages to collect around him all the conveniences and 
elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His 
country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for stu- 
dious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. 
Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting imple- 



Rural Life in England. 65 

ments of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint 
either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of 
hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves 
every one to partake according to his inclination. 

The aste of the English in the cultivation of land, and 
in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They 
have studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite 
sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. 
Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in wild 
solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic 
life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive 
graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural 
abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of 
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets 
of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, 
heaping up rich piles of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves 
and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds 
across them; the hare, bounding away to the covert; or the 
pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing: the brook, 
taught to wind in natural meanderings or expand into a 
glassy lake : the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering 
trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the 
trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters; while 
some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and 
dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the se- 
clusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but 
what most delights me, is the creative talent with which 
the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle 
life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and 
scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of 
taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discrim- 
inating eve, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and 
pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile 
spot grows into loveliness under his hand; and yet the 
operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to 
be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees, 
the cautious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of 



66 The Sketch-Book. 

flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the in- 
troduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial 
opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of 
water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, a per- 
vading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with 
which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the 
country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural 
economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very la- 
borer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, 
attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass- 
plot before the door, the little flower bed bordered with snug 
box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging 
its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the win- 
dow, the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat 
winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of 
green summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the 
influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and per- 
vading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, 
as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the 
cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the 
national character. I do not know a finer race of men than 
the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effem- 
inacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, 
they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness 
of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined 
to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pur- 
suing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. 
These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of 
mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of man- 
ners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town 
cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In 
the country, too, the different orders of society seem to ap- 
proach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and 
operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions be- 
tween them do not appear to be so marked and impassable 
as in the cities. The manner in which property has been 



Rural Life in England. 67 

distributed into small estates and farms has established a 
regular gradation from the nobleman, through the classes 
of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial 
farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and while it has 
thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused 
into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. 
This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at 
present as it was formerly; the larger estates having, in 
late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some 
parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race 
of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but 
casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. 
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and 
beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, 
operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external 
influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he 
cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds 
nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders 
in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the 
lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and 
reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and 
to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common 
life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring 
men more and more together ; and the sounds of hound and 
horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one 
great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular 
among the inferior orders in England than they are in 
any other country; and why the latter have endured so 
many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining 
more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and 
privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through 
British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from 
rural life; those incomparable descriptions of nature that 
abound in the British poets, that have continued down from 
The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and have brought 
into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy 
landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear 



68 The Sketch-Booh. 

as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become 
acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets 
have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her 
in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minut- 
est caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — 
a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop 
could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not 
exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its 
crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by 
these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up 
into some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country. 
A great part of the island is rather level, and would be 
monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture : but it 
is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, 
and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not 
abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little 
home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every 
antique farmhouse and moss-grown cottage is a picture : 
and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is 
shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a 
continual succession of small landscapes of captivating 
loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the 
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated 
in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well- 
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. 
Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and 
peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture, 
with its low massive portal; its gothic tower; its windows 
rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preserva- 
tion ; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of 
the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil ; 
its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy 
yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and 
kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular 
pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the 
tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and foot- 
path leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields, 



Rural Life in England. 69 

and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorial 
right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable 
cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under which 
the forefathers of the present race have sported — the 
antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural 
domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- 
rounding scene : all these common features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, and a hereditary 
transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, 
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character 
of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the 
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to 
behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces 
and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the 
green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see 
them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, 
and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embel- 
lishments which their own hands have sjn'ead around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affec- 
tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of 
the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot 
close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the 
words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with 
remarkable felicity : — 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 

The city dome, the villa crown' d with shade, 

But chief from modest mansions numberless, 

In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 

Down to the cottaged vale, and straw roof'd shed; 

This western isle hath long been famed for scenes - 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place; 

Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can centre in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses 

But its own sharers, and approving heaven; 

That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 

Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. 

From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend 
Rann Kennedy, A.M. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MlDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have outlived 
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up 
in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all 
love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as 
mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on 
human nature have induced me to think otherwise. They 
have convinced me, that however the surface of the char- 
acter may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, 
or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still 
there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest 
bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, 
and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I 
am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full ex- 
tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in 
broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed 
love. I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal 
to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down 
many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. 
Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song 
piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for 
fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion 
over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history 
of the affections. The heart is her world : it is there her 
ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks 
for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on 
adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of 

70 



The Broken Heart. 7 1 

affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for it 
is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it 
blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being 
— he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied oc- 
cupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the 
scer.e of disappointment be too full of painful associations, 
he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the 
wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of 
the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers 
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ? Her lot 
is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her 
heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and 
sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft 
cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into 
the tomb ; and none can tell the cause that blighted their 
loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, 
and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its 
vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the 
world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a 
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when for- 
tunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and 
there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. 
With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great 
charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the 
cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the 
pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents 
through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet re- 
freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — 
"dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame 
sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, 
after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over 
her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but 



72 The Sketch-Booh. 

lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, 
should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some 
casual indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows 
of the mental malady which previously sapped her strength, 
and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the prio'e and beauty of the 
grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with 
the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly with- 
ering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We 
see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding 
leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even 
in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the 
beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or 
thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the 
earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and 
have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death 
through the various declensions of consumption, cold, de- 
bility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symp- 
tom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind 
was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known 
in the country where they happened, and I shall but give 
them in the manner in which they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young 

E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon 

forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, 
condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was 
so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so 
everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His 
conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The 
noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of 
treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of 
his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the 
hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply 
into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented 
the stern policy that dictated his execution. 



The Broken Heart. 73 

But there is one heart, whose anguish it would be im- 
possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, 
he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting 
girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She 
loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first 
and early love. When every wordly maxim arrayed itself 
against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and 
danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more 
ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could 
awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have 
been the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by 
his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the 
tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they 
most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one 
shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was 
most, lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so 
dishonored there was nothing for memory to dwell on that 
could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender 
though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting 
scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, 
sent like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the 
parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had 
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- 
ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could 
the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a 
spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have 
experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a 
people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most deli- 
cate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of 
wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they 
tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate 
her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her lover. 
But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity 
which scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the 
vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put 
forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the 
haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the 



74 The Sketch-Book. 

depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, appar- 
ently unconscious of the world around her. She carried 
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandish- 
ments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the 
charmer, charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretched- 
ness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a 
scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joy- 
less, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in 
trappings of mirth^ and looking so wan and woebegone, as 
if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a mo- 
mentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through 
the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter 
abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, 
and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, 
with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a 
little plaintive ah*. She had an exquisite voice; but on 
this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed 
forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd 
mute and silent around her, and melted every one into 
tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It 
completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his 
addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead 
could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined 
his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed 
by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted 
in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. 
He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her 
sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she 
was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he 
at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with 
the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably 
another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She 



The Broken Heart. 75 

was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to- 
be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and 
devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. 
She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at 
length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 
It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines : — 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing: 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow ! 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

If that severe doom of Synesius be true — "It is a greater 
offence to steal dead men's labor, than their clothes," what shall 
become of most writers? 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the 
press, and how it conies to pass that so many heads, on 
which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barren- 
ness, should teem with voluminous productions. As a man 
travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of 
wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out 
some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. 
Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great 
metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me 
some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at 
once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with 
which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm 
weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of min- 
erals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyp- 
tian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal suc- 
cess, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty 
ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my 
attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a 
suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and 
then it would open, and some strange-favored being, gen- 
erally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through 
the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding ob- 
jects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued 
my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the 
passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions 
beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with that facility 



The Art of Book-Making. 77 

with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the 
adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious 
chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. 
Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged 
a great number of black-looking portraits of ancient au- 
thors. About the room were placed long tables, with 
stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, 
studious personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, 
rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious 
notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through 
this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might hear 
the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, 
the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his posi- 
tion to turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless aris- 
ing from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned 
research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write 
something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, where- 
upon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound 
silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded 
with ponderous tomes, upon which the other would fall 
tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a 
doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply 
engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene re- 
minded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up 
in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, 
which opened only once a year; where he made the 
spirits of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark 
knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the 
magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he 
issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to 
soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the 
powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to 
one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, 
and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before 
me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found 
that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken 
for magi, were principally authors, and in the very act of 



78 The Sketch- Book. 

manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room 
of the great British Library — an immense collection of 
volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now 
forgotten, and most of which are seldom read : one of these 
sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which modern 
authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or 
" pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own 
scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. 
I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none 
but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. 
He was evidently constructing some work of profound eru- 
dition, that would be purchased by every man who wished 
to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf 
of his library, or laid open upon his table ; but never read. 
I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of 
biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his 
dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that 
exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering 
over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to 
determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of counte- 
nance, who had all the appearance of an author on good 
terms with his bookseller. After considering him atten- 
tively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscella- 
neous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was 
curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made 
more stir and show of business than any of the others ; 
dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of 
manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of 
another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
little and there a little." The contents of his book 
seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' cal- 
dron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, 
toe of frog and blind- worm's sting, with his own gossip 
poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley " slab 
and good." 



The Art of Book-Making. 79 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the 
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of 
knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, 
in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they 
were first produced? We see that nature has wisely, 
though whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds 
from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds ; so that 
animals, which, in themselves, are little better than carrion, 
and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and 
the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to disperse and 
perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and 
fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up 
by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth again 
to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of 
time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of me- 
tempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was 
formerly a ponderous history revives in the shape of a 
romance — an old legend changes into a modern play — and 
a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole 
series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the 
clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn down 
a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up 
in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a 
tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe 
of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the 
great law of nature, which declares that all sublunary 
shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but 
which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. 
Generation after generation, both in animal and vegetable 
life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to 
posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, 
do authors beget authors, and having produced a numerous 
progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers, 
that is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and 
from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had 



80 The Sketch-Booh. 

leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ; 
or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering ; or to an unlucky habit of 
napping at improper times and places, with which I am 
grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, 
however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the 
same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little 
changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber 
was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, 
but that the number was increased. The long tables had 
disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a 
ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying 
about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth- 
street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of 
those incongruities common to dreams, methought it turned 
into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which 
they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, 
that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular 
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a 
skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, 
while some of his original rags would peep out from among 
his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an 
eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous 
mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having purloined 
the gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly 
wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance 
set at nought all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly- 
looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy 
garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court- 
dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had 
trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu- 
script, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from The 
Paradise of Daintie Devices, and having put Sir Philip 
Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an 
exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of 
puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with 
the spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that 



The Art of Book-Making. 81 

he had a very imposing front ; but he was lamentably tat- 
tered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched his 
small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin 
author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, 
too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, 
merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch 
their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many 
were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the patch- 
work manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak 
of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arca- 
dian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but 
whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic 
haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's 
Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from 
all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one 
side, went about with a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, " bab- 
bling about green fields." But the personage that most 
struck my attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in 
clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, but 
bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, 
elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy 
self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek 
quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically 
away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves!" I 
looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became ani- 
mated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a 
shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an 
instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with 
fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The 
scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all 
description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to 
escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen 
half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on 
another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks 
of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side 



82 The Sketch-Book. 

by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollox, and 
sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a 
volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper 
little compiler of farragos, mentioned sometime since, he 
had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claim- 
ants about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I 
was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accus- 
tomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off 
with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my 
eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentlemen in the 
Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore af- 
fright with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! 
They were close upon his haunches : in a twinkling off 
went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was 
peeled away ; until in a few minutes, from his domineer- 
ing pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chapped bald 
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags 
fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of 
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of 
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its 
usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their 
picture frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the 
walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my cor- 
ner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms gazing at 
me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been 
real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard 
in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of 
wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was 
a kind of literary " preserve," subject to game-laws, and 
that no one must presume to hunt there without special 
license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of 
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi- 
tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let 
loose upon me. 



A ROYAL POET. 

Though your body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Neither check nor chain hath found, 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

Ox a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I 
made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full 
of storied and poetical associations. The very external 
aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high 
thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, 
like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves 
its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly 
air, upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous ver- 
nal kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's 
temperament, filling his mind with music, and disposing 
him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering 
through the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries 
of the castle, I passed with indifference by long rows of 
portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the 
chamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties which 
graced the gay court of Charles the Second; and as I gazed 
upon them, depicted with amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, 
and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter 
Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected 
rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green courts," 
with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glancing 
along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the 
image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and 
his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling 
days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine — 



84 The Sketch-Book. 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the 
ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scot- 
land, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, 
was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of 
state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt 
of ages, and is still in good preservation. It stands on a 
mound, which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, 
and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the 
armory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various 
kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging 
against the wall, which had once belonged to James. 
Hence I was conducted up a staircase to a suite of apart- 
ments of faded magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, 
which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate 
and fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his 
story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince 
is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was 
sent from home by his father, Robert III., and destined 
for the French court, to be reared under the eye of the 
French monarch, secure from the treachery and danger 
that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his 
mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the hands 
of the English, and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV., 
notwithstanding that a truce existed between the two 
countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy 
father. " The news," we are told, " was brought to him 
while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that 
he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands 
of the servant that attended him. But being carried to his 
bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three days 
died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." L 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; 

1 Buchanan. 



A Royal Poet. 85 

but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated 
with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to in- 
struct him in all the brandies of useful knowledge culti- 
vated at that period, and to give him those mental and 
personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. 
Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an advan- 
tage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclusively 
to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of 
knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have 
given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly cap- 
tivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of 
romance, than of a character in real history. He was well 
learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to 
tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance; he was an expert 
mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, 
and sundry other instruments of music, and was an expert in 
grammar, oratory, and poetry." x 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, 
and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous 
existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of 
bustle and chivalry, to pass the springtime of his years 
in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of 
James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, 
and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations 
of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive, under 
the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid and irri- 
table; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and 
imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets 
upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive 
bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. 2 

1 Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 
2 Roger L'Estrange. 



86 The Sketch-Book. 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that 
it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world 
is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a 
necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and 
forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, 
and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the 
world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his 
dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid 
scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the King's 
Quair, composed by James, during his captivity at Wind- 
sor, as another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the 
soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of 
the blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in 
the course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, 
is that it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's 
true feelings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes. 
It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets 
deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, 
to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into 
his closet, and seeking to win his favor by administering to 
his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intel- 
lectual competition, which strips off all the trappings of 
factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level 
with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend on his own 
native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at 
the history of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple 
affections of human nature throbbing under the ermine. 
But James had learned to be a poet before he was a king ; he 
was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of 
his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley 
with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; 
and had James been brought up amidst the adulation and 
gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, have 
had such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his 
situation, or which are connected with the apartment in the 



A Royal Poet. 87 

tower They have thus a personal ana local charm, and 
are given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the 
reader present with the captive in his prison, and the com- 
panion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of 
spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea 
of writing the poem. It was the still mid watch of a clear 
moonlight night ; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire 
in the high vault of heaven : and " Cynthia rinsing her 
golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and 
restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The 
book he chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy, a 
work popular among the writers of that day, and which had 
been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the 
high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was 
one of his favorite volumes while in prison : and indeed it 
is an admirable text-book for meditation under adversity. 
It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by 
sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in 
calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of 
eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to 
bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, 
which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, 
like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in 
his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the 
fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and 
the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. 
Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins ; but its 
sound, chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to 
him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the 
spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply with 
this intimation : he therefore takes pen in hand, makes 
with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and 
sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is some- 
thing extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as 
furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple 
manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are 
sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to 
the mind. 



88 The Sketch-Booh. 

In the course of bis poem he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and 
inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure 
of the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unre- 
strained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very com- 
plaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiable and social 
spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and gener- 
ous propensities; there is nothing in them harsh or exagger- 
ated; they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and 
are perhaps rendered more touching by their simple brevity. 
They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated re- 
pinings, which we sometimes meet with in poetry; — the 
effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their 
own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffend- 
ing world. James speaks of his privations with acute 
sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if his 
manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 
When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however 
brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering that 
extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a roman- 
tic, active and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood 
of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigor- 
ous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes 
forth brief but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual 
blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, 
we might almost have suspected that these lowerings of 
gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the bright- 
est scene of his story ; and to contrast with that refulgence 
of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of 
bird and song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel of 
the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. 
It is this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic 
of romance about the old Castle Keep. He had risen, he 
says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from the 
dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in 
his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, 
" for tired of thought and woebegone," he had wandered to 



A Royal Poet. 89 

the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace of 
gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is ex- 
cluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden 
which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, shel- 
tered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and 
protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn 
hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset. 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyf x was none, walkyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that their were, 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

Growing so faire, with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis 2 set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song — 

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom; 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the 
language of his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 
For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 

And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the 
birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and 
undefinable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in 

1 Lyf, person. 2 Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



90 The Sketch-Book. 

this delicious season. He wonders what this love may be, 
of which he has so often read, and which thus seems 
breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melt- 
ing all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so 
great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed 
to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut off 
from its enjoyments? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 
That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find: 
May he oure hertes setten * and unbyncl : 

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye? 

For giff he be of so grete excellence, 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt 2 to him, or done offense, 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, 
he beholds "the fairest and the freshest young floure " 
that ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walk- 
ing in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May 
morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the 
moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at 
once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and be- 
comes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign 
of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance 
to the early part of Chaucer's Knights Tale; where Pal- 
amon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see 
walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the sim- 
ilarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read 
in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in his 
poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the 
picturesque and minute manner of his master ; and being 
doubtless taken from the life, is the perfect portrait of a 
beauty of that day. He dwells, with the fondness of a 
lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl 

1 Setten, incline. 2 Gilt, what injury I have done, etc. 



A Royal Poet. 91 

splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her 
golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small orf ev- 
ery e " l about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in 
shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire 
burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue 
was looped up to enable her to walk with more freedom. 
She was accompanied by two female attendants, and about 
her sported a little hound decorated with bells ; probably 
the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which was 
a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of 
ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of 
general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature; 

God better knows then my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse, 2 estate, 3 and cunning 4 sure, 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an 
end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs 
the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm 
over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneli- 
ness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this pass- 
ing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long 
and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when 
evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully ex- 
presses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower," 
he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon 
the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and 
sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of 
the twilight hour, he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," 
into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, 
and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of 
his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, 
questions his spirit, whither it has been wandering ; 

1 Wrought gold. 2 Largesse, bounty. 3 Estate, dignity. * Cunning, discretion. 



$2 The Sketch-Booh. 

whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming 
fancy has been conjured up by preceding circumstances ; or 
whether it is a vision, intended to comfort and assure him 
in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some 
token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, 
given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of the 
purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and alights 
upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilli- 
flower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, 
the following sentence : — 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is and sure 

Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; 
reads it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token 
of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic 
fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a 
token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be de- 
termined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. He 
concludes his poem by intimating that the promise con- 
veyed in the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by his 
being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession 
of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute 
fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruit- 
less to conjecture: let us not, however, reject every roman- 
tic incident as incompatible with real life ; but let us some- 
times take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely those 
parts of the poem immediately connected with the tower, 
and have passed over a large part, written in the allegor- 
ical vein, so much cultivated in that day. The language, 
of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of 
many of its golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at 
the present day; but it is impossible not to be charmed 
with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and 
urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of 



A Royal Poet. 93 

nature too, with which it is embellished, are given with a 
truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most 
cultivated periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of 
coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and ex- 
quisite delicacy which pervade it ; banishing every gross 
thought or immodest expression, and presenting female 
loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost 
supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and 
Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their 
writings. Indeed, in one of the stanzas he acknowledges 
them as his masters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we 
find traces of similarity to their productions, more espe- 
cially to those of Chaucer. There are always, however, 
general features of resemblance in the works of contempo- 
rary authors, which are not so much borrowed from each 
other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their 
sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their own 
conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ; 
and thus each generation has some features in common, 
characteristic of the age in which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our 
literary history, and establishes the claims of his country to 
a participation in its primitive honors. Whilst a small 
cluster of English writers are constantly cited as the fathers 
of our verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is 
apt to be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy 
of being enrolled in that little constellation of remote but 
never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest firma- 
ment of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang to- 
gether at the bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scot- 
tish history (though the manner in which it has of late 
been woven with captivating fiction has made it a univer- 
sal study), may be curious to learn something of the subse- 
quent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His 
passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his cap- 
tivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the 



94 The Sketch-Book. 

court that a connection with the blood royal of England 
would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately 
restored to his liberty and crown, having previously es- 
poused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, 
and made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and 
irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them- 
selves in their possessions, and place themselves above the 
power of the laws. James sought to found the basis of 
his power in the affections of his people. He attached the 
lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the tem- 
perate and equable administration of justice, the encour- 
agement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every- 
thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent 
enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. He 
mingled occasionally among the common people in dis- 
guise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their 
pursuits, and their amusements ; informed himself of the 
mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and 
improved ; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching 
with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. 
Having in this generous manner made himself strong in the 
hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the 
power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dan- 
gerous immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such 
as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the 
whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time 
they bore this with outward submission, but with secret 
impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at 
length formed against his life, at the head of which was his 
own uncle, Robert Stewart, earl of Athol, who, being too 
old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, insti- 
gated his grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir 
Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. 
They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent 
near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously mur- 
dered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, 
rushing to throw her tender body between him and the 



A Royal Poet. 95 

sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to 
shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until she had 
been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was 
accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birth- 
place in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with 
more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging up 
in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in 
the tournajr, brought the image of the gallant and romantic 
prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the deserted 
chambers where he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon 
the window, and endeavored to persuade myself it was the 
very one where he had been visited by his vision ; I looked 
out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. 
It was the same genial and joyous month; the birds were 
again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody; 
everything was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth 
the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights to 
obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems 
to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and 
love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several 
centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the 
foot of the Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of 
the Keep ; and though some parts have been separated by 
dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded 
walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered, 
blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot that 
has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and 
consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is height- 
ened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, 
indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every place in which it 
moves ; to breathe around nature an odor more exquisite 
than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint 
more magical than the blush of the morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a 
warrior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him 
merely as a companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of 
the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the 



96 The Sketch-JBooJc. 

sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common 
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy 
plant of Scottish genius, which has since become so prolific 
of the most wholesome and highly flavored fruit. He car- 
ried with him into the sterner regions of the north all the 
fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did everything 
in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant 
and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of a 
people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud 
and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems which, unfor- 
tunately for the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the 
world ; one, which is still preserved, called Christ's Kirk 
of the Green, shows how diligently he had made himself 
acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which con- 
stitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the 
Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor 
he could enter into their enjoyments. He contributed 
greatly to improve the national music; and traces of his 
tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to exist in 
those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains 
and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his 
image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the 
national character ; he has embalmed his memory in song, 
and floated his name to after ages in the rich streams of 
Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kin- 
dling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his impris- 
onment. I have visited Vanclnse with as much enthusiasm 
as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have 
never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating 
the old Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing 
over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal 
Poet of Scotland. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A gentleman ! 
What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar chest? 
Or lists of velvet? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by? 

Beggar's Bush. 

There are few places more favorable to the study of 
character than an English country church. I was once 
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided 
in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly 
struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint 
antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English land- 
scape. It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient 
families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the 
congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior 
walls were incrusted with monuments of every age and 
style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with 
armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In 
various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and 
high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effi- 
gies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck 
with some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty 
memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred 
dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people 
of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, 
furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated 
with their arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and 
peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery 
beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, w T ho were 
ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a priv- 

97 



98 The Sketch-Booh. 

ileged guest at all the tables, of the neighborhood, and had 
been the keenest fox-hunter in the country; until age and 
good living had disabled him from doing anything more than 
ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunt- 
ing dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossi- 
ble to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and 
place : so, having, like many other feeble Christians, com- 
promised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own 
delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself 
by making observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice 
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, 
that there was the least j>retension where there was the 
most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly 
struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high 
rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing 
could be more simple and unassuming than their appear- 
ance. They generally came to church in the plainest 
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop 
and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, 
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble 
cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully 
fair, with an expression of high refinement, but, at the 
same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engaging affability. 
Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were 
dressed fashionably, but simply ; with strict neatness and 
propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. 
Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that 
lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak freeborn 
souls that have never been checked in their growth by 
feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness 
about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion 
with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride 
that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. 
I was pleased to see the manner in which they would con- 
verse with the peasantry about those rural concerns and 
field-sports, in which the gentlemen of this country so 
much delight. In these conversations there was neither 



The Country Church. 99 

haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the other ; 
and you were only reminded of the difference of rank by 
the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, 
who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased 
the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neigh- 
borhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and 
dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family 
always came to church en prince. They were rolled majes- 
tically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The 
crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the 
harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat 
coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a 
flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on 
the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, 
in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed 
canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its 
long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. The very 
horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced 
their eyes more proudly than common horses ; either because 
they had caught a little of the family feeling, or were 
reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. 
There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle 
of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and 
scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing 
of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph 
and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged 
and checked until they were fretted into a foam. They 
threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about 
pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering 
quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and 
left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, 
the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that pro- 
duced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their 
haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for 



100 The Sketch-Book. 

the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi- 
zen first emerged his round red face from out the door, 
looking about him with the pompous air of a man accus- 
tomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market 
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, 
followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little 
pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, 
honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her; 
and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything was fine 
about her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting 
and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was 
one long Lord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that 
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, though no one 
could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their 
appropriateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity 
of a country church. They descended loftily from the 
carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step 
that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an 
excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly 
faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately 
brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound 
and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner 
that showed they were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable 
pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, 
eyeing every one askance that came near them, as if meas- 
uring his claims to respectability ; yet they were without 
conversation, except the exchange of an occasional cant 
phrase. They even moved artificially; for their bodies, in 
compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- 
plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had 



The Country Church. 101 

done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, 
but nature had denied them the nameless grace. They 
were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common 
purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assump- 
tion which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
these two families, because I considered them specimens 
of what is often to be met with in this country — the 
unpretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no re- 
spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true 
nobility of soul; but I have remarked in all countries 
where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 
classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. 
Those who are well assured of their own standing are least 
apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing is so 
offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to 
elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a 
respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable 
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in 
a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual 
consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the 
wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to 
the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion 
upon himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the 
responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over 
the church. It was evident that he was one of those 
thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of 
devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, somehow 
or other, of the government party, and religion " a very 
excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and 
kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, 
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being reli- 



102 The Sketch-Book. 

gious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pub- 
licly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every 
mouthful and pronouncing it " excellent food for the 
poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to wit- 
ness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen 
and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling 
home across the fields, chatting with the country people as 
they went. The others departed as they came, in grand 
parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the 
gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clat- 
tering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses 
started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried 
to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; 
and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirl- 
wind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters, 
must have noticed the passive quiet of an English land- 
scape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly 
recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's 
hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of 
the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. 
The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less dis- 
turbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost 
fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny 
landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, 
enjoyed the hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a 
day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face 
of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is 
charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul 
gently springing up within us. For my part, there are 
feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beau- 
tiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; 
and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on 
Sunday than on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used fre- 
quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy 
aisles ; its mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken panel- 
ling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed 
to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in 
a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion 

103 



104 The Sketch-JBook. 

penetrated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself con- 
tinually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and 
pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in 
the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel 
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a 
poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of 
years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something 
better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent 
pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though 
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some 
trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not 
take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the 
steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, 
all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but 
the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and 
bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her 
prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes 
would not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice 
of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the re- 
sponses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting 
of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this 
was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. 
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a 
beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long 
reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded 
by yew-trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its 
tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with 
rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated 
there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who 
were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most 
remote and neglected corners of the churchyard; where, 
from the number of nameless graves around, it would 
appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into 
the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the 
only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the 
distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down to 
the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach 



The Widow and Her So?i. 105 

of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with 
which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest 
materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by 
some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an 
air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners 
in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real 
mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the 
aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom I 
had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sup- 
ported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort 
her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, 
and some children of the village were running hand in hand, 
now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to 
gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with 
prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The ser- 
vice, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had 
been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuf- 
fled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. 
The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church 
door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and 
never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touch- 
ing ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
deceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. 
Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I 
could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a con- 
vulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last 
relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on 
the feelings of grief and affection; directions given in the 
cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into sand and 
gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all 
sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to 
waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised 



106 The Sketch-Booh, 

her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. 
As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into 
the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of 
grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the 
arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whis- 
per something like consolation — "Nay, now — nay, now — 
don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her 
head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental 
obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tender- 
ness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come 
to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — 
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a bar- 
barous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of 
maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church- 
yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting 
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was 
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitu- 
tion, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the 
distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe — pleas- 
ures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their 
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their grow- 
ing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits 
soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile 
affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows 
of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe — 
the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a 
wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy — 
the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning 
over an only son, the last solace of her years; these are 
indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of con- 
solation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my 
way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as com- 
forter : she was just returning from accompanying the mother 
to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particu- 
lars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 



The Widow and Her Son. 107 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest 
cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assist- 
ance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably 
and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. 
They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and 
pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, 
"he was such a comely lad, so sweet- tendered, so kind to 
every one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did 
one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his 
best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old 
mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning 
on George's arm, than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, 
she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was 
not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service 
of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. 
He had not been long in this employ when he was en- 
trapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His 
parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that 
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main 
prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
and melancholy and sunk into his grave. The widow, left 
lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support 
herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind 
feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain 
respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one 
applied for the cottage, in which she had passed so many 
happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she 
lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of 
nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of 
her little garden, which the neighbors would now and then 
cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time 
at which these circumstances were told me, that she was 
gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard 
the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. 
A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and 
wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was 



108 The Sketch-Book. 

emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken 
by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he 
sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. 
The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wan- 
dering eye. — " Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you know 
your son? your poor boy, George?" It was indeed the 
wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by 
sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged 
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of 
his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a 
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended: 
still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live 
to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was 
exhausted in him; and if anything had been wanting to 
finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage 
would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the 
pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a 
sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and 
assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too 
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. 
His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed 
unwilling to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to 
the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in 
advanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has 
pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a for- 
eign land; but has thought on the mother " that looked on 
his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered 
to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness 
in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all other 
affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by sel- 
fishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- 
lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every 
comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleas- 



The Widow and Her Son. 109 

ure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult 
in his prosperity: — and, if misfortune overtake him, he 
will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace 
settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in 
spite of his disgrace; and if all the world beside cast him 
off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 
ness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none 
to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his 
sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She 
would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. 
Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look 
anxiously up until he saw her bending over him ; when he 
would take her hand, lay it on his bosom and fall asleep, 
with the tranquility of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction 
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pe- 
cuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, how- 
ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had 
prompted them to do everything that the case admitted : 
and as the poor know best how to console each other's 
sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the 
aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourn- 
ing for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than 
this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a 
black ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or 
two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs 
that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon 
the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold 
marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently 
over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed 
down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offer- 
ing up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken 
heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was 
worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 



110 The Sketch-Book. 

the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted 
themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few 
steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I 
left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfac- 
tion, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone 
to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is 
never known, and friends are never parted. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 1 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday 
in the country, and its tranquilizing effect upon the land- 
scape; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly 
apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, Lon- 
don? On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed 
into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week 
are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges 
and manufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer 
obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, 
yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes- 
trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anx- 
ious countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are 
smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they 
have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with 
their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as 
in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church 
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth 
issues from his mansion the family of the decent trades- 
man, the small children in advance ; then the citizen and 
his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters, 
with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds 
of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after 
them from the window, admiring the finery of the family, 
and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young 
mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the 
city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and now the 
patter of many feet announces a procession of charity 
scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a 
prayer-book under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the 
carriage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; 

1 Part of a sketch omitted in the earlier editions. 
Ill 



112 The Sketch-Book. 

the flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by- 
lanes and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant 
beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the 
threshold of the sanctuary. For a time everything is 
hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of 
the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes 
and courts; and the sweet chanting of the choir making 
them resound with melody and praise. Never have I been 
more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music, 
than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of 
joy, through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, 
elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of 
the week ; and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide 
of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again 
alive with the congregation returning to their homes, but 
soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday 
dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some 
importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment at 
the board. Members of the family can now gather together, 
who are separated by the laborious occupations of the week. 
A school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the 
paternal home ; an old friend of the family takes his accus- 
tomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well-known 
stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known 
jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to 
breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks 
and rural environs. Satirists may say what they please 
about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, 
but to me there is something delightful in beholding the 
poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus 
to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the 
green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the 
mother's breast; and they who first spread out these noble 
parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround 
this huge metropolis, have done at least as much for its 
health and morality, as if they had expended the amount of 
cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EAST- 
CHEAP. 

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH 

A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good 
fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great- 
great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when 
his great-grandfather was a child, that " it was a good wind that 
blew a man to the wine." 

Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to 
honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before 
their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be 
known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is 
left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel; another 
may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart 
his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished 
at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The 
wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the 
eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the 
mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient 
light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his 
little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in 
the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; 
and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost 
smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his 
followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shake- 
speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light 
up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue 
some merit from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in 
words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common 
herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes 

113 



114 The Sketch- Book. 

at the bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler 
brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell 
the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of 
homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for 
some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should 
discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every 
attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been 
explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond 
the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they 
had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so 
completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with 
panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult 
now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a 
beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 
and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with 
such force and consistency are the characters sustained, 
that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts 
and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur, 
that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, 
in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enliv- 
ened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as val- 
uable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand 
years since : and, if I may be excused such an insensibility 
to the common ties of human nature, I would not give 
up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. 
What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like 
me ? They have conquered countries of which I do not 
enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do 
not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples of hair- 
brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor 
the inclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! — kind 



The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 115 

Jack Falstaff ! — sweet Jack Falstaff ! — has enlarged the 
boundaries of human enjoyment; he has added vast regions 
of wit and good humor, in which the poorest man may 
revel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of 
jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better to the 
latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a pilgrim- 
age to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the 
old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may 
light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her 
guests ; at any rate there will be a kindred pleasure, in 
treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the 
toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with 
generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execu- 
tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted re- 
gions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of little Britain, 
and the parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in Cateaton- 
street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its 
two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and 
the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited London 
Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch 
rebel, Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where 
the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. 
For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for 
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef 
roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals : there was 
clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! 
how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of 
Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has given 
place to the plodding tradesman; the clattering of pots and 
the sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and 
the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell; and no song is 
heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billings- 
gate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 



116 The Sketch- Book. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in 
stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at present is 
built into the parting line of two houses, which stand on 
the site of the renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, 
I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who 
had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked 
up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. 
I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of 
which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid 
out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded 
a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and 
tallow candles : the two views, which comprised, in all 
probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in 
which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the 
better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
from London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubt- 
less, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the 
universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity 
of true wisdom, and that liberal communicative disposition, 
which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, 
knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of 
the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused 
the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it 
was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and 
continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a 
dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad 
measures and other iniquities, which are incident to the 
sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with 
heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, 
Crooked Lane, towards the supporting of a chaplain. For 
some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there; 
but it was observed that the old Boar never held up 
his head under church government. He gradually de- 
clined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years 



The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 117 

since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she 
informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. 
Michael's Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a 
sight of this picture was now my determination ; so, having 
informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my 
leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit 
having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary 
lore, and furnished an important incident in the history of 
her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to 
explore Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, 
and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, 
like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. 
At length I traced him to a corner of a small court sur- 
rounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about 
as much of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at 
the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bow- 
ing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his 
eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a 
small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might 
venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, 
and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- 
pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and 
settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale — 
for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any 
weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to 
clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment 
when they had finished their ale and their argument, and 
were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so 
having made known my wishes, I received their gracious 
permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a 
short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the 
tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every pro- 
fession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of 
great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fish- 



118 The Sketch- Book. 

monger of the olden time is regarded with as much rever- 
ence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel 
on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the mon- 
ument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains 
also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Wal- 
worth, knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy 
wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honor- 
able blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record 
famous for deeds of arms: — the sovereigns of Cockney 
being generally renowned as the most pacific of all poten- 
tates. 1 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately 
under the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, 
stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer 
at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty 
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was 
thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I 
was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little 
sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and 
informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a 
dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and 
whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling 

1 The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this 
worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name ; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
And gave him amies, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fo'urscore,and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the ven- 
erable Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by 
vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William 
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and 
not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by 
such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, 
or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second 
was John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. — Stowe's London. 



The Boards Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 119 

weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out of 
their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in 
their graves, the ghost of honest Preston which happened 
to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the 
well-known call of " waiter " from the Boar's Head, and 
made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, 
just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the 
"mirre garland of Captain Death;" to the discomfiture of 
sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an infidel 
attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and 
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in 
the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself 
for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well 
known that the churchyards and by-corners of this old 
metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; 
and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, 
and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower 
which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of 
their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have 
been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, 
who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been 
equally prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " and to have 
transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the 
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, 
flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas 
honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his 
conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his 
measure. 1 The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, 

1 As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for 
the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of 
some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 

Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 

Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd, 

The charms of wine, and everyone beside. 

O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 

Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 

He drew good wine, took care to* fill his pots, 

Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 

You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 

Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



120 The Sketch-BooJc. 

did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the 
tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of 
the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness 
of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little 
sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and 
a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 
on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 
yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the 
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was 
to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry and 
amen!" said I, "here endeth my research!" So I was 
giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, 
when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in 
everything relative to the old tavern, offered to show me 
the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed 
down from remote times, when the parish meetings were 
held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the 
parish clubroom, which had been transferred, on the de- 
cline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neigh- 
borhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands 
No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, 
and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rook" 
of the establishment. It is one of those little taverns 
which abound in the heart of the city, and form the centre 
of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered 
the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these 
close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to 
struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best 
but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into 
boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white 
cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were 
of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it 
was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room was 
a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. 
A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glis- 
tened along the mantlepiece, and an old-fashioned clock 
ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in 



The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 121 

this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me 
back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, 
was humble, but everything had that look of order and 
neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable 
English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, 
who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling 
themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of 
rather high pretensions, I was ushered into a little mis- 
shapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was 
lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern 
chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It 
was evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I 
found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, 
seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of 
porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with 
an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. 
Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, 
and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame 
Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to 
oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of the house, 
where the precious vessels of the parish club were depos- 
ited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in 
her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- 
box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry 
had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemo- 
rial ; and which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar 
hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with 
becoming reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding 
on its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest ! 
There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, 
and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, 
at table, in full revel ; pictured with tliat wonderful fidelity 
and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals 
and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the 
benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any 
mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names 
of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 



122 . The Sketch-Booh. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly 
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir 
Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beauti- 
fied by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a 
faithful description of this august and venerable relic ; and 
I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his 
Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long- 
sought san-greal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame 
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it ex- 
cited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also 
belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old 
Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the 
gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was held, she told me, 
in exceeding great value, being considered very "an tyke." 
This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentle- 
man in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly 
suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant 
Bardolph. He suddenly roused from his meditation on the 
pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, 
exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made 
that there article ! " 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but 
there is nothing sharpens the apprehensions so much as an- 
tiquarian research ; for I immediately perceived that this 
could be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " 
on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to 
Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured 
up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testi- 
mony of that solemn contract. 1 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the 
goblet had been handed down from generation to gen- 
eration. She also entertained me with many particulars 

1 Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin 
chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun- 
week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man 
at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to 
marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? —Henry IF., 
Part 2. 



The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 123 

concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them- 
selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters 
of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds 
of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to 
relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these 
matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors one and 
all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry 
crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are 
several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant 
among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which 
they give as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and 
Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hairdresser, whose shop stands on the 
site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat 
Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes 
his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medita- 
tion. His head had declined a little on one side; a deep 
sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach; and, 
though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a 
moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. 
I followed the direction of his eye through the door which 
stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory 
breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the 
fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recon- 
dite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his 
dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting 
in his hand a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I 
departed, with a hearty benediction on him, Dame Honey- 
ball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane; — not for- 
getting my shabby but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth 
hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a " tedious brief " account of this 
interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and 
unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this 
branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present 
day. I am aware that a more skillful illustrator of the 
immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have 



124 The Sketch- Book. 

touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising the 
biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert 
Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. 
Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; pri- 
vate anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daugh- 
ter, whom I have not even mentioned; to say nothing of a 
damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, 
I remarked to be a comely lass, witlr a neat foot and 
ankle;) — the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, 
and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future 
commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, 
and the "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to 
light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruit- 
ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield 
of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Deummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in 
which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and 
seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries 
and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I 
was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster 
Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which 
one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when 
suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster 
School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic 
stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and 
mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought 
to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper 
into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the 
vergers for admission to the library. He conducted, me 
through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of 
former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading 
to the chapter-house and the chamber in which Doomsday 
Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small 
door on the left. To this the verger applied a key; it 
was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if 
seldom used. We now ascended a dark, narrow 
staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered 
the library. 

125 



126 The Sketch-Book. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- 
ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was 
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a consider- 
able height from the floor, and which apparently opened 
upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of 
some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung 
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery 
were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They 
consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were 
much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the 
library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, 
an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long 
disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and pro- 
found meditation. It was buried deep among the massive 
walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the 
world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the 
school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the 
sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along 
the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri- 
ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the 
bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through 
the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound 
in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the 
table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, how- 
ever, I was beguiled b}^ the solemn monastic air, and lifeless 
quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked 
around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, 
thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed 
in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind 
of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are 
piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty 
oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching 
head ! how many weary days ! how many sleepless 
nights ! How have their authors buried themselves in the 
solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from 
the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature ; 



The Mutability of Literature, 127 

and devoted themselves to painful research and intense 
reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch of 
dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read now 
and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or 
casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be 
lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this 
boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local 
sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled 
among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering 
transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing 
that was not ! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un- 
profitable speculations with my head resting on my hand, 
I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, 
until I accidentally loosened the clasps ; when to my utter 
astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like 
one awakening from a deep sleep; then a husky hem; 
and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very 
hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which 
some studious spider had woven across it; and having 
probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills 
and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it be- 
came more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly 
fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, 
was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, w r hat, 
in the present day, would be deemed barbar us; but I 
shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern 
parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and 
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and 
complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more 
than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and 
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or 
two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned 
them to their shelves. " What a plague do they mean," 
said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was some- 
what choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping 
several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched 



128 The Sketch- Book. 

by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, 
merely to be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books 
were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I 
would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of 
us a visit at least once a year ; or if he is not equal to the 
task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school 
of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now 
and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you are not 
aware how much better you are off than most books of 
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient 
library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints 
and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap- 
els ; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left 
to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned 
to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking 
big, " I was written for all the world, not for the book- 
worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand 
to hand, like other great contemporary works ; but here" 
have I bee n clasped up for more than two centuries, and 
might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are 
playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had 
not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few 
last words before I go to pieces." 

« My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this 
have been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, 
you are now well stricken in years; very few of your con- 
temporaries can be at present in existence ; and those few 
owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old 
libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to 
harems, you might more properly and gratefully have com- 
pared to those infirmaries attached to religious establish- 
ments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, 
by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure 
to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of 
your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we 
meet with their works ? what do we hear of Robert Gro- 



The Mutability of Literature. 129 

teste, of Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder than 
he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly two 
hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of 
books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid has 
long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered 
in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed 
even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus 
Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theolo- 
gian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he 
might shut himself up and write for posterity; but pos- 
terity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of 
Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, 
wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the 
world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted 
of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classi- 
cal composition ? Of his three great heroic poems one is 
lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are 
known only to a few of the curious in literature ; and as 
to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disap- 
peared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the 
Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? 
Of William of Malmsbury; — of Simeon of Durham; — of 
Benedict of Peterborough; — of John Hanvill of St. 
Albans; — of — " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 
" how old do you think me ? You are talking of authors 
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin 
or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them- 
selves, and deserved to be forgotten ; x but I, sir, was 
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned 
Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native 
tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant 
English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in 

1 In Latin and French hath many soneraine wittes had great delyte to en- 
dite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some that 
speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good 
a fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's 
Testament of Love. 



130 The Sketch-Book. 

such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite 
difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but 
it matters little : almost all the writers of your time have 
likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publi- 
cations are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. 
The purity and stability of language, too, on which you 
found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious 
dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times 
of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history 
in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. 1 Even now many talk of 
Spenser's < well of pure English undefiled,' as if the lan- 
guage ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was 
not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually 
subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which 
has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the 
reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can 
be committed to something more permanent and unchange- 
able than such a medium, even thought must share the fate 
of everything else, and fall into decay. This should serve 
as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the most 
popular writer. He finds the language in which he has 
embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the 
dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks 
back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the 
favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A 
few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their 
merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the 
bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of 
his own work, which, however it may be admired in its 
day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the course 
of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; until it shall 
become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an 

1 Holinshecl, in his chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by deligent 
travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the 
Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, 
our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it 
never came into the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, 
wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and 
excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their 
great praise and immortal commendation." 



The Mutability of Literature. 131 

Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said 
to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, 
with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library, 
filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding 
and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like 
the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out 
in all the splendor of military array, and reflected that in 
one hundred years not one of them would be in existence!" 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see 
how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the 
good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays 
but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays 
and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms 
of the ' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be 
so when you were last in circulation, have long since had 
their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality 
of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers, 1 and 
which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, 
and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever men- 
tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even 
Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, 
and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely 
known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who 
wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down, 
with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after 
wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until 
they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that 
some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings 
up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability 
of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit 
of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To 

1 Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden- 
pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify untotbe world that thy writer 
was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the 
daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, 
the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the 
sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. — Harvey's 
Pierce's Supererogation. 



132 The SJcetch-JBook. 

reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beau- 
tiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning 
the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to 
make way for their successors. Were not this the case, 
the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of 
a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive 
vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. 
In like manner the works of genius and learning decline, 
and make way for subsequent productions. Language 
gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of 
authors who have flourished their allotted time; otherwise, 
the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, 
and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless 
mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints 
on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be tran- 
scribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation; 
they were written either on parchment, which was expen- 
sive, so that one work was often erased to make way for 
another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely 
perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable 
craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude 
of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was 
slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. 
To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing 
that we have not been inundated by the intellect of 
antiquity: that the fountains of thought have not been 
broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But 
the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to 
all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, 
and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and 
diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The con- 
sequences are alarming. The stream of literature has 
swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — expanded 
into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred 
manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would 
you say to libraries such as actually exist, containing three 
or four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at 
the same time busy; and the press going on with fearfully 
increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? 



The Mutability of Literature. 133 

Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among 
the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so 
prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation 
of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much. 
It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles 
one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by 
economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should 
be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear 
all will be in vain : let criticism do what it may, writers 
will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably 
be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the 
employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. 
Many a man of passable information, at the present day, 
reads scarcely anything but reviews; and before long a 
man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking 
catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I 
perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the 
fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left 
the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite 
temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he 
was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, 
and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the 
country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shake- 
speare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man 
that the literature of his period has experienced a duration 
beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise 
authors now and then, who seem proof against the muta- 
bility of language, because they have rooted themselves in 
the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like 
gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a 
stream ; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating 
through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very 
foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them 
from being swept away by the over-flowing current, and hold 
up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, 
to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom 



134 The Sketch-Booh 

we behold defying the encroachments of time, retaining in 
modern use the language and literature of his day, and 
giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from 
having nourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to 
say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole 
form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like 
clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant 
that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and 
chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of 
laughter that had well-nigh choked him, by reason of his 
excessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon 
as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! and so you 
would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be 
perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man with- 
out learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a poet ! " And here 
he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour- 
ished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, 
not to give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers 
he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write 
from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart 
will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer 
of nature, whose features are always the same, and always 
interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; 
their pages are crowded with commonplaces, and their 
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true 
poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives 
the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illus- 
trates them by everything that he sees most striking in 
nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human 
life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, there- 
fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, 
of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which 
enclose within a small compass the wealth of the language 
— its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a porta- 
ble form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be 



The Mutability of Literature. 135 

antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in 
the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value 
of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the 
long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dull- 
ness, tilled with monkish legends and academical contro- 
versies ! what bogs of theological speculations ! what 
dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we 
behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons 
on their widely separated heights, to transmit the pure 
light of poetical intelligence from age to age." l 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door 
caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came 
to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought 
to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy 
little tome was silent; the clasps were closed : and it 
looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I 
have been to the library two or three times since, and have 
endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in 
vain ; and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took 
place, or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams 
to which I am subject, I have never to this moment been 
able to discover. 



1 Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill cloth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more: 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 
Are stre wings fitt'st for graves — 
You were as flowers now wither'd; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of 
rural life which still linger in some parts of England, are 
those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting 
them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, 
are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive 
church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been 
observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently 
mentioned by their writers, and were no doubt, the spon- 
taneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long 
before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, 
or story it on the monument. They are now only to be 
met with in the most distant and retired places of the 
kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able 
to throng in, and trample out all the curious and interest- 
ing traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to 
in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : — 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded all with sweet flowers; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed 
in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral 
of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet 

13G 



Rural Funerals. 137 

of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl 
nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards 
hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the 
deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white 
paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is gener- 
ally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems 
of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory 
which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind 
of triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they have fin- 
ished their course with joy, and are become conquerors." 
This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern 
counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a 
pleasing though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still even- 
ing, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of 
a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the 
train slowly moving along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground. 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodil 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Hereick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to 
the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such 
spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, 
sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap- 
proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then 
follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, 
at other times for a few hundred yards, and, having paid 
this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes 
his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the 
English character, and gives it some of its most touching 
and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic 
customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common people 



138 The Sketch-Book. 

for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, 
whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that 
some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas 
Overbury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid," ob- 
serves, " thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may 
die in the springtime, to have store of flowers stucke upon 
her windingsheet." The poets, too, who always breathe 
the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond soli- 
citude about the grave. In The Maid's Tragedy by Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the 
kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken- 
hearted girl : 

When she sees a bank 

Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 

Her servants, what a pretty place it were 

To bury lovers in; and make her maids 

Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the 
turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens 
and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his 
Sylva, "with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems 
of the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scrip- 
tures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in 
dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has now become 
extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in 
the churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh moun- 
tains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of 
Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of 
Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was pres- 
ent at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that 
the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, 
which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about 
the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in 
the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck 
in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, 
and might be seen in various states of decay ; some droop- 
ing, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be 



Rural Funerals. 139 

supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which 
on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and over- 
shadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifnlness in the 
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something 
in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with 
the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This 
sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set 
with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural 
hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and tran- 
sitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not 
yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color 
of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were 
tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or 
story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings 
of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled Corydorts Dole- 
ful Ifnell, a lover specifies the decorations he intends to 
use: — 

A garland shall be framed 
By art and nature's skill, 

Of sundry-colored flowers, 
In token of good-will. 

And sundry -color' d ribands 

On it I will bestow; 
But chiefly black and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen; 
And with my tears as showers, 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of 
a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token 
of her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons 
were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. 
The red rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such 
as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in gen- 
eral were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn 
tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his 
time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where 



140 The Sketch-Book. 

the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their 
defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Camden like- 
wise remarks, in his Britannia : " Here is also a certain 
custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees 
upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids 
who have lost their loves ; so that this churchyard is now 
full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, em- 
blems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the 
yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of 
the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas 
Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza: 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In The Maid's Tragedy a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals 
of females who had been disappointed in love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth ; 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly , gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity 
of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which 
pervaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, 
it was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented 
evergreens and flowers should be employed. The intention 
seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to be- 
guile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perish- 



Rural Funerals. 141 

ing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased 
with the most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. 
There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust 
can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks 
from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the form 
we have loved, with those refined associations which it 
awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. 
" Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring! 

Herrick, also, in his Dirge of Jephtha, pours forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a 
manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise: 

May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
British poets who wrote when these rites were more preva- 
lent, and delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have 
already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot however 
refrain from giving a passage from Shakespeare, even though 
it should appear trite ; which illustrates the emblematical 
meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at the 
same time possesses that magic of language and apposite- 
ness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack 



142 The Sketch-Book. 

The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetn'd not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the 
most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower 
while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as 
affection is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos 
expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled 
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly ele- 
gant and touching has disappeared from general use, and 
exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. 
But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks 
of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite 
they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they 
have learned to check its free impulses, to distrust its sally- 
ing emotions, and to apply its most affecting and pictur- 
esque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. 
Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an Eng- 
lish funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy 
parade ; mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning 
plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of 
grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, 
" and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighbor- 
hood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, and 
they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the 
gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying suc- 
cession of new inmates and new pleasures effaces him 
from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which 
he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the 
country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death 
makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful 
event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing 
bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals with its pervading 
melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the land- 
scape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also 



Rural Funerals. 143 

perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 
enjoyed them; who was the companion of our most retired 
walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea 
is associated with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice 
in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit 
haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of 
him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive 
beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, 
we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and 
when sober evening returns with its gathering shadows 
and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour 
of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed; 
Beloved, till life can charm no more: 

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately 
in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to 
prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by 
the exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sab- 
bath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and 
most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and 
present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos 
of the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray 
over the graves of their deceased friends, for several Sun- 
days after the interment ; and where the tender rite of 
strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always 
renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when 
the season brings the companion of former festivity more 
vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the 
nearest relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are 
employed ; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be 
deemed an insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as 
it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. 
The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that 
the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to 



144 The Sketch-Book. 

the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The 
latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the 
presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the 
soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations 
of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited 
them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal 
precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual 
affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and 
returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the 
heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to 
heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we 
consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish 
and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would 
willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from 
her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is 
the child that would willingly forget the most tender of 
parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even 
in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom 
he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon 
the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, 
as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept 
of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? — 
No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest 
attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise 
its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is 
calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sud- 
den anguish and the convulsive agony over the present 
ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into 
pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its 
loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the 
heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud 
over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness 
over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even 
for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, 
there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There 
is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from 
the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — 



Rural Funerals. 145 

It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes 
every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none 
but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look 
down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a 
compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with 
the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him. 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi- 
tation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- 
ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily in- 
tercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the 
tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting 
scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its 
noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The 
last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, 
thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand! 
The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give 
one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of 
the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold 
of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
unrequited — every past endearment unregarded, of that 
departed being, who can never — never — never return to 
be soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the 
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate 
parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the 
fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms 
to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou 
art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or 
deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou 
art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that 
true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; — 
then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, 
every ungentle. action, will come thronging back upon thy 
memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure 
that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the 
grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavail- 



146 The Sketch- Book. 

ing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and 
unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties 
of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou 
canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but 
take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction 
over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec- 
tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to 
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations 
illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of 
note, to another paper, which has been withheld. The 
article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is 
mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of 
these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly in- 
vestigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- 
tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun- 
tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more 
general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; 
but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate 
into affectation. Bright, in his travels in lower Hungary, 
tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for re- 
tirement, with seats placed among bowers of greenhouse 
plants; and that the graves generally are covered with the 
gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual picture of 
filial piety, which I cannot but transcribe; for I trust it is 
as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues 
of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed 
the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some 
pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst 
of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young 
woman, who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with 
turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of the 
passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the 
figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monument 
more striking than the most costly work of art." 



Mural Funerals. 147 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that 
I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It 
was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders 
of the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mt. Rigi. It was 
once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up between 
the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the land side only 
by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic did not 
exceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of cir- 
cumference, scooped out as it were from the bosom of the 
mountains, comprised its territory. The village of Gersau 
seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained 
the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small 
church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of 
the graves were placed crosses of w^ood or iron. On some 
were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently at- 
tempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were 
hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if 
occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene ; 
I felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for 
these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the 
heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more 
populous place, I should have suspected them to have been 
suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but 
the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was 
not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question 
whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was 
twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that 
he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical 
devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? 



Falstaff. 



During a journey that I once made through the Nether- 
lands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme cV Or, the 
principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the 
hour of the table dliote, so that I was obliged to make a 
solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The 
weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a 
great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had 
the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any 
visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and 
requested something to read ; he brought me the whole 
literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an 
almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris 
newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading 
old and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck 
with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the 
kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the continent 
must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country 
inn is to the middle and inferior order of travellers; par- 
ticularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a fire 
becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the 
newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take 
a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was 
composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours 
before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants 
and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great 
burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an 
altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered 
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; 
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. 

148 



The Inn Kitchen. 149 

A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, 
bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow 
rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily 
away into remote corners; except where they settled in 
mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or 
were reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed 
from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, 
with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with 
a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess 
of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and 
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found 
their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little 
swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large 
whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; at the end of 
each of which there was one of those bursts of honest 
unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges in that 
temple of true libertj^, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and lis- 
tened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extrava- 
gant, and most very dull. All of them, however, have 
faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I 
will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its 
chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the 
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a 
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. 
He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket with 
a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with 
buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, rubi- 
cund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a 
pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled 
from under an old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one 
side of his head. He was interrupted more than once by 
the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and 
paused now and then to replenish his pipe ; at which times 
he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the 
buxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers cou.a imagine the old fellow lolling 



150 The Sketch-Booh 

in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a 
curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de 
mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his 
head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye 
occasionally, as he related the following story. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



He that supper for is dight, 
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 
Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 
Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a 
wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not 
far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there 
stood, many, many years since, the castle of the Baron Von 
Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost 
buried among beech-trees and dark firs ; above which, how- 
ever, its old watch tower may still be seen, struggling, like 
the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high 
head, and look down upon the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzen- 
ellenbogen, 2 and inherited the relics of the property, and all 
the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition 
of his predecessors had much impaired the family posses- 
sions, yet the baron still endeavored to keep up some show 
of former state. The times were peaceable, and the Ger- 
man nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient 
old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, 
and had built more convenient residences in the valleys : 
still the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little 
fortress, cherishing with the hereditary inveteracy, all the 

1 The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will per- 
ceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss 
by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at 
Paris. 

2 i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very powerful 
in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a 
peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 

151 



152 The Sketch- Book. 

old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of 
his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had hap- 
pened between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, 
when she grants but one child, always compensates by 
making it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of 
the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, as- 
sured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in 
all Germany ; and who should know better than they ? She 
had, moreover, been brought up with great care under the 
superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some 
years of their early life at one of the little German courts, 
and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary 
to the education of a fine ladj T . Under their instructions 
she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she 
was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and had 
worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such 
strength of expression in their countenances, that they 
looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read 
without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through 
several church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders 
of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable pro- 
ficiency in writing; could sign her own name without 
missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it 
without spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant 
good-for-nothing lady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was 
versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a 
number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all the 
tender ballads of the Minne-lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in 
their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant 
guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; 
for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably 
decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suf- 
fered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of 
the castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched; 
had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and 
implicit obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! — she was 
taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such abso- 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 153 

lute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she -would 
not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the 
world — no, not if he were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully appar- 
ent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and correct- 
ness. While others were wasting their sweetness in the 
glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown 
aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and 
lovely womanhood under the protection of those immacu- 
late spinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian 
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exulta- 
tion, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in 
the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of 
the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 
be provided with children, his household was by no means 
a small one : for Providence had enriched him with abun- 
dance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the 
affectionate disposition common to humble relatives; were 
wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every pos- 
sible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. 
All family festivals were commemorated by these good 
people at the baron's expense ; and when they were filled 
with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing 
on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these 
jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to 
tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose portraits 
looked grimly down from the walls around, and. he found 
no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was 
much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all 
those supernatural tales with which every mountain and 
valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests ex- 
ceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of wonder 
with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston- 
ished even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus 
lived the Baron Yon Landshort, the oracle of his table, the 



154 The Sketch-Book. 

absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above 
all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of 
the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost 
importance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of 
the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on 
between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to 
unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their 
children. The preliminaries had been conducted with 
proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without 
seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the 
marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg 
had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was 
actually on his way to the baron's to receive his bride. 
Missives had even been received from him, from Wurtz- 
burg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the 
day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him 
a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out 
with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended 
her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage 
of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; and 
fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as 
youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of expec- 
tation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, 
all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little 
heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her; 
for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of 
this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel 
how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to 
receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, 
in truth, nothing exactly to do : but he was naturally a 
fuming bustling little man, and could not remain passive 
when all the world was in a hurry. He worried from top 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 155 

to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he 
continually called the servants from their work to exhort 
them to be diligent; and buzzed about every hall and 
chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle 
fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsman ; the 
kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had 
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein; 
and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under 
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the dis- 
tinguished guest with Saus und Brans in the true spirit of 
German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make his 
appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had 
poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Oden- 
wald, now just gleamed along the summits of the moun- 
tains. The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained 
his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the count 
and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; 
the sound of horns came floating from the valley, pro- 
longed by the mountain echoes. A number of horsemen 
were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road; 
but when they had nearly reached the foot of the moun- 
tain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. 
The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit 
by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer 
to the view; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now 
and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursu- 
ing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man 
travels toward matrimony when his friends have taken all 
the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and 
a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at the 
end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg, 
a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had seen 
some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkenfaust, 



156 The Sketch-Book. 

one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of German 
chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His 
father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of 
Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the fami- 
lies hostile, and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and 
the count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials 
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose 
charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; 
and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from 
Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count having given direc- 
tions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their 
military scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to 
be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms 
of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of 
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely 
and thickly- wooded passes. It is well known that the for- 
ests of Germany have always been as much infested by 
robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at this time, the 
former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of dis- 
banded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not 
appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were 
attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the 
forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were 
nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to 
their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but 
not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was 
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz- 
burg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent, 
who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul 
and body ; but half of his skill was superfluous ; the mo- 
ments of the unfortunate count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 157 

cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. 
Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the 
most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous 
that his mission should be speedily and courteously exe- 
cuted. " Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not sleep 
quietly in my grave ! " He repeated these last words with 
peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, 
admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe 
him to calmness; promised faithfully to execute his wish, 
and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man 
pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into de- 
lirium — raved about his bride — his engagements — his 
plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the 
castle of Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of 
vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the 
awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, 
and his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an 
unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their 
festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were 
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this 
far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut 
up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the 
sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in 
his character that made him fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements 
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral 
solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the 
cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious rela- 
tives ; and the mourning retinue of the count took charge 
of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their 
guest, and still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little 
baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which 
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be 



158 The Sketch- Book. 

postponed. The meats were already overdone ; the cook in 
an agony; and the whole household had the look of a gar- 
rison that had been reduced by famine. The baron was 
obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the 
presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just 
on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn 
from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a 
stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the 
castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder 
from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future 
son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted 
on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a 
beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. 
The baron was a little mortified that he should have come 
in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment 
was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of 
proper respect for the important occasion, and the impor- 
tant family with which he was to be connected. He paci- 
fied himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must 
have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus 
to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably — " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compli- 
ments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself 
upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, 
once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so 
he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time 
the baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner 
court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to 
speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appear- 
ance of the female part of the family, leading forth the 
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a 
moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul 
beamed forth in his gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. 
One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her 
ear ; she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 159 

timidly raised; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stran- 
ger ; and was cast again to the ground. The words died 
away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, 
and a soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance 
had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl 
of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love 
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no 
time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred 
all particular conversation until the morning, and led the 
way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the wall hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of 
the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they 
had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets, 
splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were min- 
gled with the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the 
wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among 
cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers 
branched immediately over the head of the youthful bride- 
groom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a 
low tone that could not be overheard — for the language of 
love is never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that 
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover ? There 
was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that 
appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. 
Her color came and went as she listened with deep atten- 
tion. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and 
when his eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong 
glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh 
of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple 
were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply 
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had 
fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that at- 



160 The Sketch- Booh. 

tend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron told his 
best and longest stories, and never had he told them so 
well, or with such great effect. If there was anything 
marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if 
anything facetious, they were sure to langh exactly in the 
right place. The baron, it is true, like most great men, 
was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was 
always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hock- 
heimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served 
up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many- good things 
were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear 
repeating, except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches 
whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them 
with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared 
out by a poor but merry and broad-faced cousin of the 
baron, that absolutely made ' the maiden aunts hold up 
their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a 
most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance 
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; 
and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed 
only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was 
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest- 
less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at 
ease. His conversations with the bride became more and 
more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to 
steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run 
through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of 
the bridegroom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and 
glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and du- 
bious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew 
less and less frequent ; there were dreary pauses in the con- 
versation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales and 
supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another 
still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of 
the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin 
horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 161 

story, which has since been put into excellent verse, and is 
read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- 
tion. He kept his eye steadily fixed on the baron, and, as 
the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his 
seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced 
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment 
the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a sol- 
emn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. 
The baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, 
everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was 
ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; 
"I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night !" 

There was something in his reply, and the tone in which 
it was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him ; but 
he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at 
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, 
stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were 
absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear 
stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the 
castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and 
snorting with impatience. — When they had reached the por- 
tal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the 
stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone 
of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more se- 
pulchral. 

" Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you 
the reason of my going. I have a solemn and indispensa- 
ble engagement" — 

" Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in 
your place?" 

"It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in per- 
son — I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " — 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until 
to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 



162 The Sketch- Booh. 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, 
" my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms 
expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers 
— my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be 
buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my 
appointment !" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in 
the whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- 
tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out- 
right, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with 
a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be 
the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked 
of mountain spirits, of wood-demons, and of other super- 
natural beings, with which the good people of Germany 
have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. 
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might 
be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that 
the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with 
so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him 
the indignation of the whole company, and especially of 
the baron, who looked upon him as little better than an 
infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily 
as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of 
regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young 
count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who 
had come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandon- 
ing him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, 
or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and 
shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ; 
and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more 
stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But 
the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. 
To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 163 

— and such a husband! if the very spectre could be so 
gracious and noble, what must have been the living man. 
She filled the house witli lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she 
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her 
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who 
was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, 
had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen 
asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, 
and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively 
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on 
the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle 
clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music 
stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, 
and stepped ligfttly to the window. A tall figure stood 
among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a 
beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and 
earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek 
at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had 
been awakened by the music, and had followed her silently 
to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, 
the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. 
As to the young lady, there was something, even in the 
spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was 
still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the 
shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affec- 
tions of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to 
be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she 
would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for 
once was refractory, and declared as strongly that she 
would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was, 
that she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise 
from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she 
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her 
on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which the 
guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this 



164 The Sketch-Book. 

promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the 
marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell 
a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh- 
borhood, as a memorable instance of family secrecy, that 
she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was sud- 
denly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence 
brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young 
lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed 
had not been slept in — the window was open, and the bird 
had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- 
gence was received, can only be imagined by those who 
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great 
man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations 
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the 
trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck 
speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, "The gob- 
lin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the gar- 
den, and concluded that the spectre must have carried off 
his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, 
for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down 
the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that'it 
was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to 
the tomb. All present were struck with the direful proba- 
bility ; for events of the kind are extremely common in 
Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! 
"What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a 
member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His 
only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he 
was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, per- 
chance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was 
completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. 
The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road 
and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself 
had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and 
was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful 
quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. 



The Spectre Bridegroom. 165 

A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal- 
frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped 
up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the 
baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, 
and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron 
was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the 
spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. 
The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appear- 
ance since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was 
splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. 
He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte- 
nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted 
in his large dark eyes. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no 
goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starken- 
faust. He related his adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the 
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had 
interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the 
sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that 
to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the 
mistake to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in 
what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin 
stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the 
feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by 
stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's 
window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in tri- 
umph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have 
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, 
and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds : but he loved 
his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to 
find her still alive ; and, though her husband was of a hos- 
tile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There 
was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not 
exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the 
joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead 
man ; but several old friends present, who had served in 



166 The Sketch-Book. 

the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable 
in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privi- 
lege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the 
castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this 
new member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so 
gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, 
were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict 
seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exem- 
plified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not 
having the windows grated. One of them was particularly 
mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that 
the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a 
counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having 
found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story 
ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold f elicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and 
evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over 
the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling 
about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial 
to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; 
and, as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back 
into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the 
shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by 
circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this 
dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the 
figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along 
their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one 
of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey 
through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind 
for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain 

167 



168 The Sketch-Booh. 

something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The 
gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with 
age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscrip- 
tions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's 
head, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of 
the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ; 
the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy 
beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapida- 
tions of time, which yet has something touching and pleas- 
ant in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into 
the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of 
grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted 
passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the 
arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a pass- 
ing cloud ; and beheld the sungilt pinnacles of the abbey 
towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- 
deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, 
which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was 
attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly 
worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They 
were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs 
were entirely effaced ; the name alone remained, having no 
doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, 
and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. 
Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over 
these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon 
this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such 
beings had been, and had perished ; teaching no moral but 
the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage 
in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, 
and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the 
monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet 
looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the 
sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to 
buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost 
startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding 



Westminster Abbey. 169 

among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, 
like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I 
pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior 
of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the 
vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at 
clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches 
springing from them to such an amazing height; and man 
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in 
comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness 
and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and 
mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as 
if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; 
while every footfall Avhispers along the walls, and chatters 
among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet 
we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless 
reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the 
congregated bones of the great men of past times, who 
have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their 
renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of 
human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and 
jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling 
out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, 
to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; 
and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised 
to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from 
forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once 
aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and ad- 
miration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. 
The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of 
literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. 
Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their 
memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and 
sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the sim- 



170 The Sketch- Book. 

plicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the 
visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder 
and fonder feeling takes the place of that cold curiosity 
or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid 
monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 
these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for 
indeed there is something of companionship between the 
author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity 
only through the medium of history, which is continually 
growing faint and obscure : but the intercourse between 
the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and 
immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; 
he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself 
up from the delights of social life, that he might the more 
intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. 
Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been 
purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be 
grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, 
not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- 
ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins 
of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the 
kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but 
which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of 
the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious 
name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned 
in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of 
death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; some kneeling 
in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon the 
tombs, with hands piously pressed together : warriors in 
armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with crosiers 
and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it 
were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely 
populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it 
seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that 
fabled city, where every being had been suddenly trans- 
muted into stone. 



1 \ "estminster Abbey. 171 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy 
of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on 
one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication 
upon the breast : the face was almost covered by the morion ; 
the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having 
been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a 
crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so 
strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits 
form the connecting link between fact and fiction; between 
the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, 
decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and 
Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated 
chapels in which they are generally found ; and in consid- 
ering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the 
legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous 
pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the 
wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of 
times utterly gone by; of beings passed from recollection ; 
of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. 
They are like objects from some strange and distant land, 
of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which 
all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is 
something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on 
Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in 
the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect 
infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful 
attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, 
which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, 
also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral 
inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of 
saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and 
I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious- 
ness of family worth and honorable lineage, than one which 
affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, 
and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monu- 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of 
modern art ; but which to me appears horrible rather than 



172 The Sketch- Book. 

sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. 
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing 
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting 
forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as 
he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her 
affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and 
frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed 
with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear 
the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended 
jaws of the spectre. — But why should we thus seek to 
clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors 
round the tomb of those we love ? The grave should be 
surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness 
and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living 
to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but 
of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy 
existence from without occasionally reaches the ear; — the 
rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur of the 
multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The 
contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around : and 
it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the 
surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against 
the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and 
from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing 
away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew 
less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was sum- 
moning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the 
choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and 
entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry 
the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps led up to it, through 
a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates 
of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon 
their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 
common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 

On entering the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- 
tecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The 



Westminster Abbey. 173 

very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the 
statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning 
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and 
density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted 
roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy 
security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the 
grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinna- 
cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the 
knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are 
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, 
and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crim- 
son, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst 
of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, 
— his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sump- 
tuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly- 
wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of 
living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which 
show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or 
later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper 
feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted 
scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on 
the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on 
the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne 
before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when 
this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; 
glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank and military 
array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of 
an admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence 
of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only 
by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their 
way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes 
and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; 



174 The Sketch- Book. 

some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant 
lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and 
cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in 
this mansion of shadowy honors : the melancholy reward 
of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the brave ; which brings 
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and min- 
gles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is 
the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that 
of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an 
hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over 
the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her op- 
pressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually 
echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her 
rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 
shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the 
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear- 
ing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with 
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, 
revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story 
of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey, 
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the 
priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 
of the choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 
The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were grad- 
ually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn 
interest to the place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 

No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 

For nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon 



Westminster Abbey. 175 

the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 
rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do 
their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty build- 
ing ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast 
vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these 
caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And 
now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher 
and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. 
— And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and 
warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty 
vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing 
organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into 
music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn 
cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! It grows 
more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, 
and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the 
senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full 
jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very 
soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling 
tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows 
of evening were gradually thickening round me ; the 
monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and 
the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning 
day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, 
and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to 
take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of 
tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, 
and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and 
queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between 
pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers 
below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, 
courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their " beds of 
darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of corona- 



176 The Sketch- Book. 

tion, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a re- 
mote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if con- 
trived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the 
beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end 
of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step 
from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think 
that these incongruous mementos had been gathered to- 
gether as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even 
in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and 
dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how soon that 
crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it 
must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and 
be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multi- 
tude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer 
a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, 
which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; 
and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the 
illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility 
which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the 
Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled 
of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen 
from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of 
Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but 
bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of 
mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some cov- 
ered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged 
and dishonored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 
through the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; 
the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the 
obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker 
and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; 
the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange 
shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze crept 
through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and 
even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's 
Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out 
at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a 



Westminster Abbey. 177 

jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with 
echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were 
already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, 
inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my 
recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from oft 
the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of 
sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of re- 
iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the cer- 
tainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death ; his 
great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at 
the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forget- 
fulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever 
silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed 
by the story of the present, to think of the characters and 
anecdotes that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a 
volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol 
of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollec- 
tion : and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of 
to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, 
"find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us 
how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades 
into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and contro- 
versy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the 
statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, 
what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but 
characters written in the dust? What is the security of 
a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The re- 
mains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the 
wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity 
of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Carn- 
byses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Miz- 
raim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 1 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above 
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The 
time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring 

i Sir T. Brown. 



178 The Sketch-BooJc. 

so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, in- 
stead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall 
whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from 
the shattered tower — when the gairish sunbeam shall 
break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy 
twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its 
blossoms above the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the 
dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from 
record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, 
and his very monument becomes a ruin. 1 

1 For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the 
hair of his good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have 
that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday 
customs and rural games of former times. They recall the 
pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, 
when as yet I only knew the world through books, and be- 
lieved it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring 
with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in 
which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the 
world was more homebred, social and joyous than at pres- 
ent. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and 
more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still 
more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those 
picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see 
crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated 
by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and 
alterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cher- 
ishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, 
from which it has derived so many of its themes — as the 
ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mould- 
ering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping 

179 



180 The Sketch- Book. 

together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalm- 
ing them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak- 
ens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is 
a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our 
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and 
elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on 
the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pasto- 
ral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They grad- 
ually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of 
Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morn- 
ing that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not 
know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than 
to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a 
Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of 
the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the 
season for gathering together of family connections, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which 
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- 
tinually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the chil- 
dren of a family, who have launched forth in life, and 
wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the 
paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there 
to grow young and loving again among the endearing me- 
mentos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times 
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the 
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptu- 
ousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with 
its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep 
delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with 



Christmas. 181 

mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of 
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature 
lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud 
of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral 
sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, 
the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they cir- 
cumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from 
rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for 
the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more 
concentrated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We 
feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and 
are brought more closely together by dependence on each 
other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we 
draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, 
which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, 
when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domes- 
tic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer 
and sunshine through the room, and lights up each counte- 
nance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face 
of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile 
— where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — 
than by the winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of win- 
try wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, 
whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chim- 
ney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober 
and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the 
comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the 
stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, 
particularly observant of the religious and social rites of 
Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details 
which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, 
the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth 
and good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele- 



182 The Sketch- Book. 

brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock 
every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, 
and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy 
and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses 
resounded with the harj) and the Christmas carol, and their 
ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. 
Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with 
green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire 
glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers 
to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round 
the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary 
jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is 
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus- 
toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and 
spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn 
down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly 
a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and cere- 
monials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like 
the sherris sack of old Falstaff , are become matters of spec- 
ulation and dispute among commentators. They flourished 
in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life 
roughly, but heartily and vigorously; times wild and pic- 
turesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest mate- 
rials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of 
characters and manners. The world has become more 
worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoy- 
ment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shal- 
lower stream ; and has forsaken many of those deep and 
quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm 
bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more en- 
lightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its 
strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest 
fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden- 
hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly was- 
sailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy 
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 



Christmas. 183 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- 
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely 
aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English 
bosom. The preparations making on every side for the 
social board that is again to unite friends and kindred ; the 
presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens 
of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens 
distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace 
and gladness ; all these have the most pleasing effect in pro- 
ducing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympa- 
thies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their 
minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night 
with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awak- 
ened by them in that still and solemn hour, " when deep 
sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed 
delight, and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous 
occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial 
choir, announcing peace and good- will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon 
by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and 
beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes 
in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night 
watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common 
people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long-, 
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spir- 
its, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, 
what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the sea- 
son of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not 
merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial 
flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 



184 The Sketch-Booh. 

beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- 
mates the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian breeze will some- 
times waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary 
pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open 
its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at 
the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beam- 
ing into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. 
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and 
every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with 
innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the 
rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who 
can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of 
his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining 
in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his 
moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but 
he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute 
the charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH. 



Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi 

Venit liora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 



In the preceding paper I have made some general ob- 
servations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am 
tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christ- 
mas passed in the country; in perusing which I would 
most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the auster- 
ity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday 
spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for 
amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode 
for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the 
day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both 
inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, 
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or 
friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also 
with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delica- 
cies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the 
coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the 
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for 
my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and 
manly spirit which I have observed in the children of 
this country. They were returning home for the holidays 
in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoy- 
ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the 
little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to 
perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the 

185 



186 The Sketch-Book. 

abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family 
and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the 
joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents 
with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meeting 
to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest im- 
patience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, 
according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any 
steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot ! 
how he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take — 
there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could 
not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, 
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not 
but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and impor- 
tance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one 
side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in 
the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full 
of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so dur- 
ing this season, having so many commissions to execute in 
consequence of the great interchange of presents. And 
here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untrav- 
elled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general 
representation of this very numerous and important class of 
functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an 
air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the 
fraternity ; so that, wherever an English stage coachman 
may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other 
craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding 
into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimen- 
sions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk 
is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which 
he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to 
his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; 
a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, know- 



The Stage Coach. 187 

ingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in 
summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; 
the present, most probably, of some enamored country 
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, 
striped, and his small clothes extend far below the knees, 
to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way 
up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he 
has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; 
and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appear- 
ance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety 
of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He 
enjoys great consequence and consideration along the 
road; has frequent conferences with the village house- 
wives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and de- 
pendence ; and he seems to have a good understanding 
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he ar- 
rives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down 
the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle 
to the care of the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive 
from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands 
are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls 
about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordli- 
ness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring 
throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those name- 
less hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run er- 
rands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of bat- 
tening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of 
the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; 
treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opinions about 
horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, 
endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuf- 
fin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the 
pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo 
Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness 
in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage 
coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts 



188 The Sketch-Booh. 

the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded 
at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some 
hasten forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and band- 
boxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can 
hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. 
In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small com- 
missions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or 
pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to 
the door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing 
leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, 
half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from 
some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the vil- 
lage, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on 
every side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. 
At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and 
wise men, who take their stations there for the important 
purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is 
generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 
with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls 
by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing ham- 
mers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre, 
in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the 
handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to 
heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky 
smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as 
if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, 
poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circu- 
lation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers' and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were 
stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and 
the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries, 
began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to 
mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations: 
■ — " Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, 
with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days 
a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now 



The Stage Coach. 189 

plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and 
broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth 
must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit 
by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christ- 
mas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, whether 
master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit 
the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly 
lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by 
a shout from my little travelling companions. They had 
been looking out of the coach windows for the last few 
miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached 
home, and now there was a general burst of joy — "There's 
John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried 
the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of the lane there was an old sober-looking ser- 
vant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by 
a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a 
little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty 
tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little dream- 
ing of the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged 
the pointer; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But 
Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to 
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John 
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 
should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands ; both talking at once, and overpowering him with 
questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked 
after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether 
pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded 
of those days when, like them, I had neither known care 
nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly feli- 
city. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the 
horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road 



190 The Sketch- Booh. 

brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just 
distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in 
the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, 
Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I 
leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the 
happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 
In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gate- 
way of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing 
kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and ad- 
mired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, 
neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an 
English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round 
with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated 
here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, 
and flitches of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a 
smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, 
and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table 
extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round 
of beef, and other hearty viands upon it, over which two 
foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travel- 
lers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout 
repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their 
ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim 
housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under 
the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still seizing 
an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have 
a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene 
completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the com- 
forts of mid-winter : — 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
A handsome hostess, a merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require. 1 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove 
up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the 

1 Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 



The Stage Coach. 191 

light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance 
which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer 
view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it 
was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young 
fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the continent. 
Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of 
an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of 
a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent 
jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an 
inn was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for 
time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he in- 
sisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's 
country seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, 
and which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better than 
eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and 
I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the 
old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must 
confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity 
and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of 
my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his invita- 
tion ; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments 
I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Caktwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; 
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post- 
boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," 
said my companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time 
for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' 
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of 
the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up some- 
thing of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable speci- 
men of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its 
purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our men of 
fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion 
is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich 
peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. 
My father, however, from early years took honest Peacham 1 
for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in 
his own mind, that there was no condition more truly hon- 
orable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his 
paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole of his time 
on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of 
the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply 
read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on 
the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is among 

1 Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 
192 



Christmas Eve. 193 

the authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; 
who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true English- 
men than any of their successors. He even regrets some- 
times that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, 
when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and 
customs. As he lives at some distance from the main 
road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any 
rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all 
blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging 
the bent of his own humor without molestation. Being 
representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, 
and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is 
much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the 
appellation of * The Squire ; ' a title which has been ac- 
corded to the head of the family since time immemorial. 
I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old 
father, to prepare you for any eccentricities that might 
otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a 
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought 
at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square col- 
umns that supported the gate were surmounted by the 
family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, shel- 
tered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the dis- 
tant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed 
garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the 
gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full 
view of a little primitive dame dressed very much in the 
antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her 
silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. 
She came courtesying forth, with many expressions of 
simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it 
seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in the 
servants' hall; they could not do without him, as he was 
the best hand at a song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 



194 The Sketch- Booh. 

through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound 
through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches 
of which the moon glittered, as she rolled through the deep 
vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with 
a slight covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as 
the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance 
might be seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing up from 
the low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the 
landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport : — 
" How often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, 
on returning home on school vacations ! How often have I 
played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of 
filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have 
cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupu- 
lous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on 
family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our 
games with the strictness that some parents do the studies 
of their children. He was very particular that we should 
play the old English games according to their original form ; 
and consulted old books for precedent and authority for 
every ' merrie disport ; ' yet I assure you there never was 
pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old 
gentleman to make his children feel that home was the 
happiest place in the world ; and I value this delicious 
home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could 
bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and 
curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the 
porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, 
open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment 
he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses 
of the faithful animals. 



Christmas Eve. 195 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by 
the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some 
magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of differ- 
ent periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with 
heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun 
with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small dia- 
mond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. 
The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles 
the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as 
my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned 
with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds 
about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of 
artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, 
and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden 
statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I 
was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete 
finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in 
gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and 
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted 
imitation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up 
with modern republican notions, but did not suit a mon- 
archical government; it smacked of the levelling system — 
I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into 
gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I 
should find the old gentleman intolerant in his creed. — 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only 
instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle 
with politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion 
from a member of parliament who once passed a few 
weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument to 
defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which 
had been occasionally attacked by modorn landscape gar- 
deners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end 
of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from 
the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was per- 
mitted, and even encouraged by the squire, throughout the 



196 The Sketch- Book. 

twelve days of Christmas, provided everything was done 
conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old 
games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, 
steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon : the Yule 
clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the 
mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent 
peril of all the pretty housemaids. 1 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we 
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came 
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons; 
one a young officer in the army, home on leave of ab- 
sence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. 
The squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, 
with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid 
countenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the 
advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us 
to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to 
the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned 
hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous 
family connection, where there was the usual proportion 
of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, super- 
annuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged 
striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They 
were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; 
others conversing around the fireplace ; at one end of the 
hall was a group of young folks, some nearly grown up, 
others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed 
by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny 
trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces 
of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked 
through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber 
through a peaceful night. 

1 The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas; 
and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking 
each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the priv- 
ilege ceases. 



Christmas Eve. 197 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been 
in old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to 
restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the 
heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a 
warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on the 
opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one 
end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, 
the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, 
whips, and spurs; and in the corners of the apartment 
were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting imple- 
ments. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship 
of former days, though some articles of modern convenience 
had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so 
that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and 
hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- 
ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst 
of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and 
sending forth avast volume of light and heat: this I under- 
stood was the Yule clog, which the squire was particular in 
having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, accord- 
ing to ancient custom. 1 

1 The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in 
the fireplace, and lighted with a brand of last year's clog. While it 
lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- 
times it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the cottages the 
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule 
clog was to burn all night; if 'it went out it was considered a sign of ill 
luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts' desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- 
land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected 
with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while 
it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
Christmas fire. 



198 The Sketch-Booh. 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in 
his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his 
ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, 
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the 
very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted 
his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his mas- 
ter's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself 
again to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There 
is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which 
cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the 
stranger at once at his ease.- I had not been seated many 
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cav- 
alier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had 
been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family 
portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the ac- 
customed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas 
candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly- 
polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was 
abundantly spread with substantial fare; but the squire 
made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes 
boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in 
old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in 
the retinue of the feast; and finding him to be per- 
fectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of 
my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth 
wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel 
acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge 
always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master 
Simon. He Avas a tight brisk little man, with the air of 
an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill 
of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, 
with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in 
autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, 



Christmas Eve. 199 

with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was 
irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, deal- 
ing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, 
and making infinite merriment by harping upon old 
themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family 
chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his 
great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him 
in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe 
of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. 
Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company, 
who laughed at everything he said or did, and at every 
turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it ; for he 
must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. 
He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman 
of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket- 
handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous 
caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with 
laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, 
and sometimes another quite remote ; as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes 
in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposition, always 
enjoying the present moment ; and his frequent change of 
scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty 
unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors are so 
uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chroni- 
cle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermar- 
riages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him 
a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all 
the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom 
he was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he 
was master of the revels among the children ; so that there 
was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he 
moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he 
had resided almost entirely with the squire, to whom he 



200 The Sketch-Boolc. 

had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted 
by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, and by 
having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We 
had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for 
no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and 
other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than 
Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas 
song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with 
a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means 
bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like 
the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old 
ditty. 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he 
had been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance 
comforting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. 
He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establish- 
ment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the village, was 
oftener to be found in the squire's kitchen than his own 
home, the old gentleman being fond of the sound of " harp 
in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 
one; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire 
himself figured down several couple with a partner, with 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a 
kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, 
and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his 
accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, 
and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, 
rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school; but he 
had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl 
from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him 



Christmas Eve. 201 

continually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober 
attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-assorted matches 
to which antique gentleman are unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of 
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand 
little knaveries with impunity: he was full of practical 
jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; 
yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite 
among the women. The most interesting couple in the 
dance was the young officer and a ward of the squire's, 
a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy 
glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I 
suspected there was a little kindness growing up between 
them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to 
captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and hand- 
some, and, like most young British officers of late years, 
had picked up various small accomplishments on the conti- 
nent — he could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes, 
sing very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, above all, he 
had been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl of seventeen, 
well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror 
of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude 
which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the 
1 title French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, 
exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but 
good old English ; upon which the young minstrel, casting 
up his eye for a moment, as if in an effortof memory, struck 
into another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, 
gave Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia." 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake nor slow-wormbite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 



202 The Sketch-BooJc. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber ? 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus come unto me, 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was 
called ; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such 
application, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her 
eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, 
with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of 
the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise 
of the dance ; indeed, so great was her indifference, that 
she amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice bou- 
quet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was 
concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through 
the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of 
the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not 
been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should 
have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, 
and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated 
in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with 
cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- 
tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of 
black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the 
walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with 
a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. 
I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed 
to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, 



Christmas Eve. 203 

and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to 
be the Waits from some neighboring village. . They went 
round the house, playing under the windows. I drew 
aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The 
moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement, 
partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, 
as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed 
to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and 
listened — they became more and more tender and remote, 
and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the 
pillow, and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 
********* 
Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorn, 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

"When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced 
me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I 
heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, 
and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small 
voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of 
which was — 

Kejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy 
groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy 
and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as 
seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and 
singing at every chamber door ; but my sudden appearance 
frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained 
for a moment playing on their lips with their ringers, and 
now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eye- 
brows, until, as if by impulse, they scampered away, 
and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them 
laughing in triumph at their escape. 

204 



Christmas Day. 205 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 
in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would 
have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping 
lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of 
park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. 
At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the 
cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a church with its 
dark spire in strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The 
house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the 
English custom, which would have given almost an appear- 
ance of summer ; but the morning was extremely frosty ; 
the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipi- 
tated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade 
of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright 
morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering 
foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash 
that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, 
was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few 
querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity 
of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared 
to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to 
a small chapel in the old w r ing of the house, where I found 
the principal part of the family already assembled in a kind 
of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large 
prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. 
The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the 
gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the 
responses ; and I must do him the justice to say that he 
acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which 
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of 
his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an 
old church melody by Master Simon. As there w T ere sev- 
eral good voices among the household, the effect was ex- 
tremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by the 
exultation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling, 



206 The Sketch-Book. 

with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza; his 
eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds 
of time and tune : 

'Tis thou that crown' st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink : 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one. 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was 
read on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, 
either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the fam- 
ily. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of 
the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be 
regretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; for the 
dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity 
prevalent in those households, where the occasional exer- 
cise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as 
it were, the keynote to every temper for the day, and attunes 
every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- 
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter 
lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, 
which he censured as among the causes of modern effem- 
inacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English 
heartiness ; and though he admitted them to his table to 
suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display 
of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by 
a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers 
about the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the 
steady old stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that 
had been in the family time out of mind — they were all 
obedient to a dog- whistle which hung to Master Simon's 
button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance 



Christmas Day. 207 

an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his 
hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not 
but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal ter- 
races, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, 
carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There ap- 
peared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the 
place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed 
a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall, 
when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master 
Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient 
and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of 
peacocks. " In the same way," added he, with a slight air 
of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy 
of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of 
foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me 
that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to 
ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory; for, 
being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly 
against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold 
the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his 
tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till 
his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- 
tion on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the pea- 
cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall ; for 
Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great favor- 
ites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up 
the breed ; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and 
were in great request at the stately banquets of the olden 
time; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence 
about them, highly becoming to an old family mansion. 
Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater 
state and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique 
stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 



208 The Sketch-Booh. 

something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of ani- 
mal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been 
somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors 
who certainly were not in the range of everyday reading. 
I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, 
who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole 
stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen old 
authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and 
which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious 
fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter 
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; 
Markham's Country Contentments; the Tretyse of Hunt- 
ing, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaac Walton's 
Angler and two or three more such ancient worthies of 
the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men 
who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a 
kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to 
his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 
squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular 
among the choice spirits of the last century. His practi- 
cal application of scraps of literature, however, had caused 
him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by 
all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the 
neighborhood. 

While we were talking, we heard the distant tolling of 
the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little 
particular in having his household at church on a Christ- 
mas morning; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks 
and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 

At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my 
cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is 
destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the 
village amateurs, and established a musical club for their 
improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my 
father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of 



Christmas Day. 209 

Jervaise Markham, in his ' Country Contentments^ ; for 
the bass he has sought out all the * deep, solemn mouths,' 
and for the tenor the * loud-ringing mouths,' among the 
country bumpkins ; and for < sweet mouths," he has culled 
with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the 
neighborhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most 
difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being 
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which 
was a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a vil- 
lage, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it 
was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the 
church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew- 
tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the 
dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to 
admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed 
this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a 
rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson 
was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig 
that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his 
head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried 
filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, 
and pockets that would have held the church Bible and 
prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from 
being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous 
buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson 
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received 
this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. 
He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely 
read a work printed in the Roman character. The edi- 
tions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; 
and he was indefatigable in his researches after such old 
English writers as have fallen into oblivion from their 
worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of 



210 The Sketch-BooJc. 

Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into 
the festive rites and holiday customs of former times; 
and had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been 
a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding 
spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up 
any track of study, merely because it is denominated 
learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be 
the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and ob- 
scenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old vol- 
umes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected 
in his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index 
of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black- 
letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson 
rebuking the gray -headed sexton for having used mistletoe 
among the greens with which the church was decorated. 
It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having 
been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and 
though it might be innocently employed in the festive 
ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed 
by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally 
unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this 
point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down 
a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before 
the parson would consent to enter upon the service of the 
day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple , on 
the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, 
and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workman- 
ship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his 
legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was 
told it was one of the family who had signalized him- 
self in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung 
over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman 
of the old school, and a man of old family connections. I 
observed too that he turned over the leaves of a folio 



Christmas Day. 211 

prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly to show 
off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, 
and which had the look of a family relic. But he was 
evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the 
service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and 
beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the 
other, among which 1 particularly noticed that of the vil- 
lage tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and 
chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown 
his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy 
man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show 
nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of 
an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among 
the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morn- 
ing had given a bright rosy tint : but the gentlemen chor- 
isters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, 
more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from 
the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, 
not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on 
country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then 
making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with 
prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest 
fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was 
an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master 
Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. 
Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the 
musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; 
everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came 
to a chorus beginning " Now let us sing with one accord," 
which seemed to be a signal for parting company : all be- 
came discord and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and 
got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, ex- 
cepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, 
bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose ; who hap- 



212 The Sketch-Book. 

pened to stand a little apart, and, being wrapped up in his 
own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, 
ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at 
least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites 
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of ob- 
serving it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of 
rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by 
the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by 
the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. 
Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints and 
fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a 
little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty 
array of forces to maintain a point which no one present 
seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good 
man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; hav- 
ing, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ- 
mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controver- 
sies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a 
fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor 
old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation 
of Parliament. 1 The worthy parson lived but with times 
past, and knew but little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to 
him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revo- 
lution was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly 
two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of 
poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum porridge 
was denounced "mere popery," and roast-beef as anti- 
christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in again 

1 From the Flying Eagle, a small Gazette, published December 24th, 1652 — 
" The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, for 
settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terrible 
remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. 
v. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these 
Scriptures John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 10 ; Psalm cxviii. 24 ; LeV. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 
8; Psalm lxxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and 
those Massemongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence of 
which Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of 
Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the follow- 
ing day, which was commonly called Christmas day." 



Christmas Day. 213 

triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of 
his contest, and the host of imaginar}^ foes with whom he 
had to combat; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne 
and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round 
Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and con- 
cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affect- 
ing manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their 
fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- 
sary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the con- 
gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety 
of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder 
folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and 
shaking hands; and the children ran about crying Ule ! 
Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes, 1 which the par- 
son, who had joined us, informed me had been handed 
down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to 
the squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and 
were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep 
out the cold of the weather; and I heard blessings uttered 
by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the 
midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not 
forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the 
sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears; 
the squire paused for a few moments, and looked around 
with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the 
day was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Not- 
withstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his 
cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away 
+ he '.hin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and 

i "Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



214 The Sketch-Booh. 

to bring out the living green which adorns an English land- 
scape even in mid winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure 
contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes 
and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad 
rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, 
glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight 
exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just 
above the surface of the earth. There was something truly 
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the 
frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, 
an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the 
chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart 
into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of 
good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable 
farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I love," said he, 
" to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great 
thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are 
sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it 
were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost 
disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on 
every churlish enemy to this honest festival: 

Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 

Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this 
season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the 
higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor-houses 
were thrown open at daylight ; when the tables were covered 
with brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and 
the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor 
were alike welcome to enter and make merry. 1 " Our old 

i " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e., on 
Christmas clay in the morning, had all Ms tenants and neighbors enter 
his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks 
went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire 
cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else 
two young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by the arms, and run her 
round the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness." —Round About our 
Sea-Coal Fire. 



Christmas Day. 215 

games and local customs," said he, "had a great effect in 
making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of 
them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made 
the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly 
say, with one of our old poets : 

I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty. 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have almost 
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their 
interests are separate. They have become too knowing, 
and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, 
and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good 
humor in these hard times would be for the nobility and 
gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more 
among the country people, and set the merry old English 
games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open 
house during the holidays in the old style. The country 
people, however, did not understand how to play their parts 
in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances 
occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the 
country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in 
one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. 
Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the 
decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall 
on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, 
and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in 
their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without 
coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, then- 
hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was 
seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number 



216 The Sketch-Booh. 

of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall 
door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads 
performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreat- 
ing, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time 
to the music, while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's 
skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept caper- 
ing round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas 
box with many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great inter- 
est and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, 
which he traced to the times when the Romans held posses- 
sion of the island; plainly proving that this was a lineal 
descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. " It was 
now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met 
with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encouraged 
its revival; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be 
followed up by the rough cudgel play, and broken heads in 
the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was 
entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. 
The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 
regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the younger 
peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths, 
when the squire's back was turned, making something of a 
grimace, and giving each other the wink; but the moment 
they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were ex- 
ceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all 
seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and 
amusements had made him well known throughout the 
neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and 
cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped 
with their daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant 
bachelor, the humblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy 
lips of the country round. 

The bashf ulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer an' 1 affability. There is something genuine 
and affectionat' n the gayety of the lower orders, when it 
is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above 



Christmas Day. 217 

them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their 
mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly 
uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent 
more than oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the 
merriment increased, and there was much joking and 
laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, 
ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the 
wit of the village ; for I observed all his companions 
to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst 
into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand 
them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 
ment : as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I 
heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking 
through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band 
of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam- 
bourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a 
jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other 
servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport 
the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, 
and, coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
confusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers' Juvenilia. 

I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distinct thwack- 
ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serv- 
ing up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in 
kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon 
the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in 
the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
March' d boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented and away. 1 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing 
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 
spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and 
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been pro- 

1 Sir John Suckling. 
218 



The Christmas Dinner. 219 

fusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly 
and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and 
weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were 
the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I 
had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting 
and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they cer- 
tainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I was 
told that the painting had been so considered time out of 
mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a 
lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the 
squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the 
family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such 
subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into 
current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under 
this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that 
might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's 
parade of the vessels of the temple: "flagons, cans, cups, 
beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers " ; the gorgeous utensils 
of good companionship that had gradually accumulated 
through many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before 
these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars 
of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in 
branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament of 
silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool 
beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a 
vast deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas 
board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of 
countenances; those who were not handsome were, at 
least, happy; and happiness is a rare improver of your 
hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English 
family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's 
portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much anti- 
quarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physi- 
ognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from having 
continually before their eyes those rows of old family por- 
traits, with which the mansions of this country are stocked ; 
certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often 



220 The Sketch-Book. 

most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I 
have traced an old family nose through a whole picture 
gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to gen- 
eration, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something 
of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company 
around me. Many of their faces had evidently originated 
in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding gen- 
erations ; and there was one little girl in particular, of 
staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose, and an antique 
vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, 
being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very 
counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court 
of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one 
of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if some- 
thing was expected; when suddenly the butler entered the 
hall with some degree of bustle : he was attended by a ser- 
vant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver 
dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with 
rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with 
great formality at the head of the table. The moment this 
pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a flour- 
ish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on re- 
ceiving a hint from h the squire, gave, with an air of the 
most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which 
was as follows : — 

Caput apri defero, 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen- 
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine 
host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish 
was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered 
from the conversation of the squire and the parson, that it 



The Christmas Dinner. 221 

was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head ; 
a dish formerly served up with much ceremony and the 
sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on Christmas 
day. " I like the old custom," said the squire, " not merely 
because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it 
was observed at the college at Oxford at which I was edu- 
cated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to 
mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the 
noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering 
about in their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are 
now in their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up with 
the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's ver- 
sion of the carol ; which he affirmed was different from that 
sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of 
a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by 
sundry annotations; addressing himself at first to the com- 
pany at large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted 
to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his 
number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his re- 
marks in an undervoice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next 
him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge 
plateful of turkey. 1 

1 The old ceremony of serving- up the boar's head on Christmas day is still 
observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson 
with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of 
my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck' d with bays and rosemary : 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio 

Caput apri defero, 

Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land. 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 

Let us servire cantico. 

Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of P.liss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi A trio. 
Caput apri defero, 

etc., etc., etc. 



222 The SJcetch-Booh. 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of 
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
" ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he 
added, "the standard of old English hospitality, and a 
joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There 
were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evi- 
dently something traditional in their embellishments ; but 
about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I 
asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently deco- 
rated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that 
bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a 
pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most 
authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the 
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself 
to have one killed. 1 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he 
was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance, 
the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, 
to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and 
relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit 
of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts : having 
doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, 
too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler 



1 The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. 
Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared 
above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end 
the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of 
chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous 
enterprise, whence^came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Mas- 
singer, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which 
this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden 
times : — 

Men may talk of Countrv Christmasses, 

Their thirty pound butter' d eggs, their pies of carp's tongues ; 

Their pheasants drench' d with ambergris; the carcases of three fat wethers 
bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock. 



The Christmas Dinner. 223 

and other servants executed the duties assigned them, how- 
ever eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look; having, 
for the most part, been brought up in the household, and 
grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the 
humors of its lord ; and most probably looked upon all his 
whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable 
housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which 
he placed before the squire. Its appearance was hailed 
with acclamation; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in 
Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by 
the squire himself ; for it was a beverage in the skilful 
mixture of which he particularly prided himself : alleging 
that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension 
of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that 
might well make the heart of a toper leap within him; 
being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly 
spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 
the surface. 1 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a 
merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round 
the board, for every one to follow his example, according to 
the primitive style ; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain 
of good feeling, where all hearts met together." 2 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 

1 The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; 
with nutmeg:, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this way the nut- 
brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of 
substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is cele- 
brated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : — 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too : 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

2 The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his 
cup. When the steward came to the doore with the AVassel, he was to cry 
three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplein) was to 
answer with a song." — Arclueologia. 



224 The Sketch-Book. 

emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, 
he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon com- 
panion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a. * 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, how- 
ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some 
gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirta- 
tion. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was 
continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gen- 
tleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a 
slow hound; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, 
though rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their 
talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general 
conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the 
same terms; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever 
he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. 
The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the sub- 
ject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to 
inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was 
a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in its 
time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I 

1 From Poor Robin's Almanac. 



The Christmas Dinner. 225 

doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine 
enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to 
diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart 
a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to 
freshen into smiles ! The joyous disposition of the worthy 
squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy himself, and 
disposed to make all the world happy; and the little eccen- 
tricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, the 
sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated ; many good things were 
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but 
which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though 
I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, 
yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- 
duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; 
but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry 
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to 
that where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter 
abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anat- 
omy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. 
Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what 
men may be made by their different lots in life. The 
squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal 
domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sun- 
shine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; 
whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and with- 
ered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows 
of his study. Still, there seemed to be a spark of almost 
extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his 
soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson 
and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks 
of the Isis, the old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces," 
which, as far as I could discipher his physiognomy, I verily 



226 The Sketch- Booh. 

believe was indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely 
met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence at 
the imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier 
and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was 
in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; 
his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began 
to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long 
song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me 
he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work, en- 
titled Cupid? s Solicitor for £ove, containing store of good 
advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me : 
the first verse was to this effect : 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always 
stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part 
excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the 
effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into 
a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. 
Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine 
host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper 
love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted 
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master 
Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as 
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing 
the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the 
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master 



The Christmas Dinner. 227 

Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on 
all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, 
the Lord of Misrule, 1 was blinded in the midst of the hall. 
The little beings were as busy about him as the mock 
fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts 
of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue- 
eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beau- 
tiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half 
torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Mas- 
ter Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild 
little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking 
over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- 
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who 
was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the 
work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been 
brought from the library for his particular accommodation. 
From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his 
shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably ac- 
corded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the popu- 
lar superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, 
with which he had become acquainted in the course of his 
antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that 
the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with 
superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse 
and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and 
pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the mar- 
vellous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of 
the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning the 
effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church 
altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that 
part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel- 
ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It 
was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of 

1 At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee was 
lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye 
in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall 
or temporall.— Stowe. 



228 The Sketch-Booh. 

the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it 
thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on 
the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the 
church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down 
the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been 
left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, 
which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. 
Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over 
which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story 
current of a sexton in old times, who endeavored to 
break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as he 
reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand 
of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pave- 
ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the 
sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, 
there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were 
shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the 
churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- 
sader apj^eared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in 
the hall, was thought by the servants to have something 
supernatural about it ; for they remarked that, in whatever 
part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still 
fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who 
had been born and brought up in the family, and was a 
great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, that in her 
young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer 
eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, 
and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader 
used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride 
about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to 
visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most civ- 
illy swung open of itself; not that he needed it; for he rode 
through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been 
seen by one of the dairymaids to pass between two bars of 
the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of 
paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much 



The Christmas Dinner. 229 

countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti- 
tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He lis- 
tened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips 
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high 
favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was 
himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and 
often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a 
superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy 
land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our 
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous 
sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something 
like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many 
small voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew 
open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might 
almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court 
of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the 
faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had con- 
ceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or masking ; and 
having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the 
young officer, who were equally ripe for anything that 
should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried 
it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been con- 
sulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rum- 
maged, and made to yield up the relics of finery that had 
not seen the light for several generations ; the younger 
part of the company had been privately convened from the 
parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into 
a burlesque imitation of an antique mask. 1 

Master Simon led the van, as Ancient Christmas, quaintly 
apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much 
the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, 
and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and 
must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenant- 
ers. From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed 

1 Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times; 
and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu- 
tion to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisingg. I strongly suspect 
Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of 
Christmas. 



230 The Sketch-Booh. 

with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a 
December blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed 
romp, dished up as Dame Mince Pie, in the venerable 
magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked 
hat and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as 
Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a 
foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. 
The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as 
Maid Marian. The rest of the train had been metamor- 
phosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery 
of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the strip- 
lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad 
skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent 
the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other 
worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was 
under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate char- 
acter of Misrule; and I observed that he exercised rather 
a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller person- 
ages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of up- 
roar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with 
glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, 
he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, 
Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the 
characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as 
though the old family portraits had skipped down from 
their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were 
figuring at cross hands and right and left; the dark ages 
were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the days of 
Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a 
line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, 
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing 
his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, not- 



The Christmas Dinner. 231 

withstanding that the latter was discoursing most authen- 
tically on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or 
peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived. 1 
For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the 
varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before 
me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm- 
hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and 
glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and 
catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. 
I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration 
that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, 
and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in 
which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed. 
There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, 
that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and 
place; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth 
and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long 
departed years. 2 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for 
me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions 
asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — 
how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas! 
is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the 
world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens 
laboring for its improvement ? — It is so much pleasanter 
to please than to instruct — to play the companion rather 
than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my 
sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of 

1 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a 
peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it 
anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the 
long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in 
gowns and long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a 
peacock." — History of Music. 

2 At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old- 
fashioned Christinas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. 
The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the cus- 
toms above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire 
and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find 
some notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn atNewstead Abbey. 



232 The Sketch- Book. 

others? Bat in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil 
is in my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any 
lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle 
from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one 
moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through 
the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent 
view of human nature, and make my reacler more in good 
humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I 
shall not then have written entirely in vain. 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 



I do walk 
Metliinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lantkorn, 
Stealing to set the town o'rlre; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I am somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond 
of exploring London in quest of the relics of old times. 
These are principally to be found in the depths of the city, 
swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick 
and mortar ; but deriving poetical and romantic interest 
from the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was 
struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a 
recent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is only 
to be explored to advantage in summer-time, when free 
from the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I 
had been buffeting for some time against the current of 
population setting through Fleet-street. The warm weather 
had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensitive to every 
jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh was weary, 
the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with the 
bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle, when 
in a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd, 
plunged into a by-lane, and after passing through several 
obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet 
court with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and 
kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its 
sparkling jet of water. A student with book in hand was 
seated on a stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating 
on the movements of two or three trim nursery maids with 
their infant charges. « 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an 

233 



234 The Sketch-Booh. 

oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees 
the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and 
refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard 
by, to a very ancient chapel, with a low-browed Saxon 
portal of massive and rich architecture. The interior was 
circular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around were 
monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were extended 
the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the 
hands devoutly crossed upon the breast; others grasped 
the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the 
tomb ! — while the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers 
of the Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; and 
I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the 
world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway 
of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these 
shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and for- 
getfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another 
of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart 
of the city. I had been wandering for some time through 
dull monotonous streets, destitute of anything to strike the 
eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a 
Gothic gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into 
a spacious quadrangle forming the courtyard of a stately 
Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity 
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting 
no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued 
on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched 
roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one 
end of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden 
settles on each side ; at the other end was a raised platform, 
or dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of 
a man in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a 
venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet 
and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, 



London Antiques. 235 

that I had not met with a human being since I had passed 
the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess 
of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of 
yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from 
panes of colored glass ; while an open casement let in the 
soft summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and 
my arm on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of 
reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of this 
edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps 
one of those collegiate establishments built of yore for 
the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in the 
ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and 
volume to volume, emulating in the productions of his brain 
the magnitude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled 
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, 
and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black 
cloaks, came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner 
through the hall, without uttering a word, each turning a 
pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through 
a door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black 
cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this 
most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts 
of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were 
passing in review before me. Pleasing myself with such 
fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what 
I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, existing in the 
very centre of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts, 
and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice 
had many additions and dependencies, built at various times 
and in various styles; in one open space a number of boys, 
who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their 
sports; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old 
gray men in black mantels, sometimes sauntering alone, 
sometimes conversing in groups : they appeared to be the 
pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what I 



236 The Sketch-Booh. 

had read of certain colleges in old times, where judicial 
astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and 
magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment 
of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really 
professors of the black art? 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye 
glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of 
strange and uncouth objects ; implements of savage war- 
fare ; strange idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents 
and monsters decorated the mantel-piece ; while on the high 
tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, 
flanked on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic cham- 
ber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, 
when I was startled at beholding a human countenance 
staring at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, 
shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, 
wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it 
were not a mummy curiously preserved, but it moved, and 
I saw that it was alive. It was another of these black- 
cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, 
his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by 
which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that 
I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this mag- 
ical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited 
me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how 
did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta- 
morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me into 
one of the bottles on his mantel-piece? He proved, however, 
to be anything but a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon 
dispelled all the magic and mystery with which I had en- 
veloped this antiquated pile and its no less antiquated 
inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre 
of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and de- 
cayed householders, with which was connected a school for 
a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards of two 
centuries since on an old monastic establishment, and re- 



London Antiques. 237 

tained somewhat of the conventual air and character. The 
shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had passed 
before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into magi, 
turned out to be the pensioners returning from morning 
service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom 
I had made the arch magician, had been for six years a 
resident of the place, and had decorated this final nestling- 
place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up in the 
course of his life. According to his own account he had 
been somewhat of a traveller ; having been once in France, 
and very near making a visit to Holland. He regretted not 
having visited the latter country, " as then he might have 
said he had been there." — He was evidently a traveller of 
the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof, 
as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief 
associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, 
of both which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; 
and a broken-down gentleman who had run through a for- 
tune of forty thousand pounds left him by his father, and 
ten thousand pounds, the marriage portion of his wife. 
Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of 
gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander 
such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which 
I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter 
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, 
on the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, 
being one of those noble charities set on foot by individual 
munificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity 
of ancient times amidst the modern changes and innovations 
of London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen 
better days, are provided, in their old age, with food, cloth- 
ing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. 
They dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall 
which had been the refectory of the original convent. At- 
tached to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys. 



238 The Sketch-Book. 

Stowe, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speak- 
ing of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, 
" They are not to intermeddle with any business touching 
the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service 
of God, and take thankfully what is provided for them, 
without muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear 
weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, 
feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly 
apparel, but such as becomes hospital men to wear." " And 
in truth," adds Stowe, "happy are they that are so taken 
from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so 
good a place as these old men are ; having nothing to care 
for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in 
brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by 
the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, 
and who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries 
of London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into 
my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown 
wig and snuff-colored coat, with whom I became ac- 
quainted shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I 
confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not 
one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquir- 
ing travellers like myself ; and which have brought our 
general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. 
On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the 
most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, 
indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full 
and particular account of the very interesting region in 
which he resides ; of which the following may be con- 
sidered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



What I write is most true ... I have a whole booke of cases 
lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients 
(within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with 
me. 

Nashe. 

In the centre of the great city of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and 
courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes 
by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church School 
and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west ; 
Smith field and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate-street, 
like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of 
the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street 
separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of New- 
gate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and desig- 
nated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the 
intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and 
Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly pro- 
tection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As 
London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to 
the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took posses- 
sion of their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain 
became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the 
busy and prolific race of booksellers ; these also gradually 
deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of New- 
gate-street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's 
Churchyard, where they continue to increase and multiply 
even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
bears traces of its former splendor. There are several 



240 The Sketch- Book. 

houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are 
magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous 
faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes : and fruits and 
flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. 
There are also, in Aldersgate-street, certain remains of 
what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but 
which have in latter days been subdivided into several 
tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty 
tradesman, with its' trumpery furniture, burrowing among 
the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time- 
stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, 
and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also 
contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, 
like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their 
claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to 
the street; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in 
lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched doorways. 1 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I 
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged 
in the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. 
My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small 
panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. 
I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed 
claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which 
bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubt- 
less figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. 
They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with 
sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; 
as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the 
plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. 
The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow 
window; on the panes of which are recorded the names 
of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with 
scraps of very indifferent gentlemanlike poetry, written in 
characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol 
the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has 

1 It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has in- 
cluded, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and 
courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



Little Britain. 241 

long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am 
an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my 
bill regular^ every week, I am looked upon as the only in- 
dependent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, being curi- 
ous to learn the internal state of a community so apparently 
shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into 
all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of 
the city; the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a 
fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its 
antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great pres- 
ervation many of the holiday games and customs of yore. 
The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove 
Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose 
at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day, 
burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the 
girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and 
plum pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and 
port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true 
English wines ; all others being considered vile outlandish 
beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, 
which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; 
such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the 
beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St. 
Dunstan's clock ; the Monument ; the lions in the Tower ; 
and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in 
dreams and fortune- telling, and an old woman that lives in 
Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by de- 
tecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. 
They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and 
eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked 
upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are 
even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning 
the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said 
strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the 
former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, 
the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been 
seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on 



242 The Sketch-Book. 

moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of 
the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One 
of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gen- 
tleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothe- 
cary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of 
cavities and projections; with a brown circle round each 
eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of 
by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer, 
because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up 
in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great 
reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to 
pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, 
earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena 
he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dis- 
mal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, w T ith their 
doses; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body 
into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and pre- 
dictions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and 
Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out 
of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook 
the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers 
and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their 
wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or proph- 
ecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has 
been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treas- 
ure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top 
of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top 
of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. 
This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to 
pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the 
repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of 
Bow Church ; and fearful to relate, the dragon and the 
grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his 
workshop. 

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go 
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but 
here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under 
our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations 



Little Britain. 243 

of astrologers." Since these portentous weather-cocks have 
thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already 
occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had 
lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost; 
another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had 
died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered; 
there had been radical meetings in all parts of the king- 
dom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot 
in Cato Street ; — and, above all, the queen had returned to 
England ! All these sinister events are recorded by Mr. 
Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the 
head ; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in 
the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled 
serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribu- 
lation, they have spread great gloom through the minds 
of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads 
whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they 
never expected any good to come of taking down that 
steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tidings, 
as the history of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied 
mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he 
is a man of no little standing and importance ; and his 
renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and 
even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken 
in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the 
last half century, together with the Gentleman's Magazine, 
Rapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. 
His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have 
borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm 
opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as England 
is true to herself, that anything can shake her ; and he has 
much to say on the subject of national debt; which, 
somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark 
and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the 
purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having 
become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, 



244 The Sketch-Book. 

he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has 
therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, 
and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole 
afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through 
a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. 
Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth 
Street but touches his hat as he passes; and he is consid- 
ered quite a patron at the coach- office of the Goose and 
Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been 
very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but 
he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, 
and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to under- 
take sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, 
and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence 
of two rival Burial Societies being set up in the place. 
One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse /S y Aoe,and was 
patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and 
Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless 
to say that the latter was the most nourishing. I have 
passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much 
valuable information, as to the best mode of being buried, 
the comparative merits of churchyards, together with divers 
hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard 
the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality 
of prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. 
The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died 
of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of 
controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely 
solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in 
their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of 
quite a different caste, which tends to throw the sunshine 
of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets 
once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly 
publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia 
a resplendent half -moon, with a most seductive bunch of 
grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscriptions to 
catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as " Truman, 



Little Britain. 245 

Han bury, and Co.'s Entire," « Wine, Rum, and Brandy 
Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This 
indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from 
time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the 
Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the 
present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants 
and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked 
into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. 
But what Wagstafi' principally prides himself upon is, that 
Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke 
the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking- 
staff. This however is considered as rather a dubious and 
vainglorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes 
by the name of The Roaring Lads of Little Britain. 
They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that 
are traditional in the place, and not to be met with in any 
other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap under- 
taker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the 
club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully 
Wagstaif himself. His ancestors were all wags before 
him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of 
songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to gen- 
eration as heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with 
bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a moist merry 
eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the open- 
ing of every club night he is called in to sing his " Con- 
fession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl 
from Gammer Gurtorfs Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with 
many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; 
for it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and 
Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written: nay, he affirms 
that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it 
before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, 
when Little Britain was in all its glory. 1 

1 As mine host of the Half-Moon's "Confession of Faith "may not be 
familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current 
songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would 
observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thump- 
ing on the table and clattering of pewter pots : 



246 



The Sketch-Book. 



It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and 
then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, 
which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the 
street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to 
that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up 
the steams of a cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 
sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's 
fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the 
fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, 
there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. 



I cannot eate but lytle ineate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke, that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Cliorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 
Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut browne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

*And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe'her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe. 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



Little Britain. 247 

The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an 
irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a 
scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard 
from the tap-room, morning, noon, and night; and at each 
window may be seen some group of boon companions, with 
half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tank- 
ard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin 
songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of pri- 
vate families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other 
times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Satur- 
nalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants 
within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with 
Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior 
Polito; the Fire-Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the 
Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday 
money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with 
the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little 
Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach 
with six horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his 
procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, 
as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the 
idea, that the King himself dare not enter the city, without 
first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking per- 
mission of the Lord Mayor : for if he did, heaven and earth! 
there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The 
man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is 
the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that 
offends against the dignity of the city; and then there is 
the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits 
at the window of the state coach, and holds the city sword, 
as long as a pike-staff — Od's blood! If he once draws 
that sword, Majesty itself is not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, 
the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple 
Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes; and as 
to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw him- 
self into the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the 



248 The Sketch-Book. 

standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid 
defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and 
its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a 
sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have 
pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where 
the principles of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, 
like seed corn, to renew the national character, when it had 
run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the 
general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; for 
though there might now and then be a few clashes of opin- 
ion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the 
apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial soci- 
eties, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed 
away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a 
shake of the hand, and never abused each other except 
behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties 
at which I have been present; where we played at All- 
Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old 
games; and where we sometimes had a good old English 
country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a 
year also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a 
gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any 
man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here 
as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we 
made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of 
little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker ! After dinner, 
too, the young folks would play at blind-man's-buff and 
hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them tangled 
among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and 
then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks 
would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, 
to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a 
newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the coun- 
try. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little 
warm in argument; but their disputes were always adjusted 
by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double 
chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, 



Little Britain. 249 

managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both 
parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and inno- 
vation creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then 
spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole 
system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tran- 
quility of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its 
golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subver- 
sion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, 
and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil 
hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of 
being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her 
grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three tower- 
ing ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got 
over it ; they were immediately smitten with a passion for 
high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace 
round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and 
detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They 
could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or Blind- 
man's-buff ; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, 
which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and 
they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and play- 
ing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been 
articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, 
characters hitherto unknown in these parts: and he con- 
founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about 
Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Jievieta. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; 
but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theo- 
bald's Road, Red Lion Square, and other parts towards 
the west. There were several beaux of their brother's 
acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; 
and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their 



250 The Sketch-Book. 

daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. 
All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of 
whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and 
the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the 
neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out 
at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; 
and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a 
look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, 
and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the 
door. 

This dance was the cause of almost open war, and the 
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing 
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, 
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- 
ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of 
her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly 
way"; and it is equally true that her invitations were 
always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the con- 
trary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted 
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend 
to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; and they 
would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's 
anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsoken- 
ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of 
Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their consciences, 
and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by can- 
vassing at the next gossiping convocation everything that 
had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to 
pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fash- 
ionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in 
spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old 
fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a 
shoe brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It 
was in vain that the daughters ahvays spoke of him as "the 
old gentleman," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infi- 
nite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing- 
gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what 
they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His 



Little Britain. 251 

sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He 
had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. 
His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and 
he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, 
dining at two o'clock, and having a "bit of sausage with his 
tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of 
his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing 
cold and civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and 
now and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a 
hint about " quality binding." This both nettled and per- 
plexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with 
the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advan- 
tage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to 
give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's; to 
sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a 
liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and 
dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and 
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves 
of every good lady within hearing. They even went so 
far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a 
French dancing master to set up in the neighborhood ; 
but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack 
up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such 
precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his 
lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this 
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely 
the overflowing of their zealfor good old English manners, 
and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent 
contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for up- 
start pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I 
grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken 
hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemning were be- 
ginning to follow their example. I overheard my land- 
lady importuning her husband to let their daughters have 



252 The Sketch-Booh. 

one quarter at French and music, and that they might 
take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course 
of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, pre- 
cisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little 
Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually 
die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- 
borhood; might die, or might run away with attorneys' 
apprentices ; and that quiet and simplicity might be again 
restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power 
arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a 
large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The 
young ladies had long been repining in secret at the par- 
simony of a prudent father, which kept down all their 
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer 
restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took 
the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that 
the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an 
advantage of them in the fashionable career. They 
could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the 
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs 
appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss 
Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the 
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be 
behindhand ; and though they might not boast of as good 
company, yet they had double the number, and were twice 
as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two fam- 
ilies. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me 
are entirely discarded; there is no such thing as getting up 
an honest country dance; and on my attempting to kiss 
a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was in- 
dignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced 
it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out 
as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs 
standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the 
Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 



Little Britain. 253 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal 
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and 
what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary him- 
self, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though 
I apprehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of 
genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle 
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the 
only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore 
in high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their 
cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil 
not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have com- 
mitted myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing 
their opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my 
conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I can- 
not to my apprehension — if the Lambs and Trotters ever 
come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, 
and am actually looking out for some other nest in this great 
city, where old English manners are still kept up ; where 
French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and 
where there are no fashionable families of retired trades- 
men. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away 
before I have an old house about my ears ; bid a long, 
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and leave 
the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide 
the distracted empire of Little Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow' d the turf is which pillow' d his head. 

Gakkick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feel- 
ing of something like independence and territorial conse- 
quence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his 
boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself 
before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let 
kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to 
pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of 
all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his 
sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, his 
undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched 
from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny 
moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who 
has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, 
knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and mo- 
ments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine 
inn? " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my 
elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little 
parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at 
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling 
face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether Iliad rung. I 
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. 
My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating 
my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, 

254 



Stratford-on-Avon. 255 

and putting the Stratford Guide- Booh under my arm, as a 
pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of 
Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about 
the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; 
and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the 
breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and 
flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and 
where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his 
father's craft of wool-combing. - It is a small, mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, 
which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. 
The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names 
and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, 
ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; and 
present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous 
and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of 
nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 
red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an 
exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in 
exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other cele- 
brated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of 
the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer, 
on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; 
which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter 
Raleigh : the sword also with which he played Hamlet; and 
the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered 
Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample sup- 
ply also of Shakespeare's mulberry -tree, which seems to have 
as extraordinary powers of self-multplication as the wood 
of the true cross ; of which there is enough extant to build 
a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake- 



256 The Sketch-Book. 

speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching 
the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin; 
or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of 
Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary 
anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this 
chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house to 
sit ; whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of 
the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely 
mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me, 
that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of 
devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least 
once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the his- 
tory of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something 
of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or 
the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; for though 
sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and 
costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, 
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; 
and would advise all travellers who travel for their 
gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether 
these stories be true or false, so long as we can per- 
suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all 
the charm of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute 
good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on this 
occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the 
claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, 
when, unluckily, for my faith, she put into my hands a play 
of her own composition, which set all belief in her consan- 
guinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the par- 
ish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with 
age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the 



/Stratford-on-Avon. 257 

Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining 
gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is 
quiet and retired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of 
the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks 
droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of 
limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as 
to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from 
the gate of the j^ard to the church porch. The graves are 
overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them 
nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, 
which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. 
Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and 
fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and 
chirping; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty 
gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the 
key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and 
boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself 
a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had 
nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His 
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its 
bordering meadows; and was a picture of that neatness, 
order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings 
in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone 
floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and 
hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along 
the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and pol- 
ished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the 
drawer contained the family library, composed of about 
half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, 
that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the 
opposite side of the room: with a bright warming-pan 
hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled 
Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was 
wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jams. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sew- 
ing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner 
was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the 



258 The Sketch-Booh. 

name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his com- 
panion from childhood. They had played together in 
infancy; they had worked together in manhood; they were 
now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of 
life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried to- 
gether in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often that 
we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and 
tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom 
scenes" of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chronicles ; but they had nothing 
new to impart. The long interval during which Shake- 
speare's writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its 
shadow over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that 
scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty 
handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparation for the celebrated Stratford 
jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of 
the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, 
according to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very 
lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cut- 
ting down Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a 
morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quick- 
ener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt 
as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon 
discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil 
eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having com- 
paratively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ 
at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of 
truth diverge into different channels even at the fountain 
head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with 



Stratford- on- Avon. 259 

carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 
the architecture and embellishments superior to those of 
most country churches. There are several ancient monu- 
ments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang fune- 
ral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the 
walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The 
place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the 
pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short dis- 
tance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. 
A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. 
There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been writ- 
ten by himself, and which have in them something ex- 
tremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that 
solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems nat- 
ural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered 
as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with 
a finely-arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it 
clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by 
which he was as much characterized among his contempo- 
raries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription 
mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three 
years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit 
might not have been expected from the golden autumn of 
such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissi- 
tudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular 
and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains 
from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, 
which was at one time contemplated. A few years since 
also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining 
vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space 



260 The Sketch-Book. 

almost like an arch, through which one might have reached 
into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with 
his remains, so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest 
any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, 
should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton 
kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault 
was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me 
that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but 
could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. 
It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb 
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John 
Combe of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that 
is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the 
place; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The 
feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here 
indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be 
false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute 
certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there was 
something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very 
truth, the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath 
my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon 
myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the 
churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, 
the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- 
tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the 
Lucy's, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where 
Shakespeare, in company with some of theroystersof Strat- 
ford, committed his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In 
this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken 
prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he re- 
mained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into 
the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have 
been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his 



Stratford- 0)1- Avon. 261 

spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed 
to the park gate at Charlecot. 1 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to 
put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming 
deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united 
puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. 
He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon 
and his paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became 
a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, 
wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecution of 
Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, 
and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, how- 
ever, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of 
the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writ- 
ings; but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir 
Thomas is said to be the original Justice Shallow, and the 
satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial 
bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces 2 
in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the 
poet; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits 
natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, 
when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity 
of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The 
poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the 
vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, 
and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is 
often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, 

- The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : — 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great; 

Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 

2 The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 



262 The Sketch-Book. 

whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or 
a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortunately 
taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly transcended 
all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like 
an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he 
was found to be in the company of all kinds of odd anoma- 
lous characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of 
the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at men- 
tion of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that 
they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poach- 
ing in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to 
a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, 
imagination, as something delightfully adventurous. 1 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this 
whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history 
of the bard. As the house stood but little more than three 
miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedes- 
trian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of 



1 A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his youthful 
days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the 
elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Picturesque Views on the Avon. 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town 
of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to 
meet, under the appellation of The Bedford Topers, and to challenge the 
lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. 
Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength 
of their heads ; and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, 
in spite of the proverb that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as 
true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered 
at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them 
off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, 
they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. 
It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed return- 
ing to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank 
with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 

Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 

Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 

Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus 
given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe 
and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough; and Grafton is 
famous for the poverty of its soil." 



Stratford- on- . I y on . 263 

those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his 
earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the 
temperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening 
effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating 
to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm 
breath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow 
earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender 
blade : and trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and 
bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and 
flower. The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the 
skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white 
blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The 
bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the 
fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves 
and budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into 
his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up 
from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into 
the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. 
As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and 
higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom 
of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it 
called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in Cyrn- 
beline : 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. 
Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of 
his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge 
of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary tales 
and wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft 



264 The Sketch-Booh. 

into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a pop- 
ular amusement in winter evenings "to sit round the fire, 
and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, 
ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, 
goblins, and friars." l 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes 
glittering from among willows, which fringed its bor- 
ders ; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath 
green banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, 
and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow 
land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale 
of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills 
seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening 
landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of 
the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned 
off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, 
and under hedgerows, to a private gate at the park ; there 
was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; 
there being a public right of way through the grounds. I 
delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has 
a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is con- 
cerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his 
lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, 
thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for 
his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls 
as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; 
and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees 
his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of pay- 
ing for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 

1 Scot, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of these fireside 
fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, 
urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can 
sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarf es. giantes, imps, calcars, conjurers, nymphes, 
changelings, incubus, Robin -good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in 
the oke, the hell-waine, the tier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, 
Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own 
shadowes." 



Stratford- on- Avon. 265 

elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The 
wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks 
cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye 
ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to inter- 
rupt the view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalk- 
ing like a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that 
has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the 
pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the 
evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin 
in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic 
grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and 
proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family; 
and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, 
when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, 
that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but, 
thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building 
up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining 
park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy 
estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators have sup- 
posed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and 
the enchanting woodland pictures in As You Like It. It is 
in lonely wanderings through such scenes, that the mind 
drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes 
intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The 
imagination kindles into revery and rapture; vague but 
exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it; and 
we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of 
thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one 
of those very trees before me, which threw their broad 
shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the 
Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that 
little song which breathes the very soul of a rural volup- 
tuary : 

Under the green wood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 



266 The Sketch-Book. 

Come hither, come hither, come hither 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- 
ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of 
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great 
gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in 
front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and 
flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient 
barbican ; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers ; 
though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. 
The front of the house is completely in the old style; with 
stone-shafted casements, a great bow- window of heavy stone- 
work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in 
stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, 
surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps 
down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer 
were feeding or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were 
sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated 
the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's 
encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected 
indifference and real vanity of the latter : 

Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John : marry, good air. 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man- 
sion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of still- 
ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened 
into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of ser- 
vants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at 
me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troop- 



Stratford-on-Avon. 267 

ers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I 
met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and 
stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious 
expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a 
scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn 
wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly ab- 
horrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise 
of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested 
in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found 
my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day en- 
trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a 
worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- 
municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of 
the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, 
and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living; 
there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, 
that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains 
much of the appearance it must have had in the days of 
Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one 
end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons 
and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall 
of a country gentleman, have made way for family por- 
traits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for 
an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying- 
place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall 
is the huge Gothic bow- window, with stone shafts, which 
looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in 
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for 
many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was de- 
lighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, 
by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified 
with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 
first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the 
Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten 
his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." 
The poet had no doubt the offenses of himself and 
his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the 
family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shal- 



268 The Sketch-Book. 

low to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir 
Thomas. 

Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star- 
Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall 
not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 
coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman born, master 
parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quit- 
tance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done anytime these three 
hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and 
all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen 
white luces in their coat.* * * * * 

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is 
no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to 
hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments 
in that. 

Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
should end it! 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty 
of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper 
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and in- 
formed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to 
cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the fam- 
ily estate, among which was that part of the park where 
Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The 
lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family 
even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant 
dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and 
arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of 
Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in 
the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought 
that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the house- 
keeper assured me that it was his son ; the only likeness 
extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the 



Stratford- on- Avon. 269 

church of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. 1 The pic- 
ture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the 
time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes 
with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master 
Slender would say, "a Cain-colored beard." His lady is 
seated on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and 
long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable 
stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are 
mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his 
perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds a 
bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawk- 
ing and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days. 2 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall 
had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately 
elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of 
former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over 
his rural domains ; and in which it might be presumed the 

1 This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete 
armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following 
inscription : which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above 
the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot 
in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton 
of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this 
wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare 
of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her 
lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any 
cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most fayth- 
ful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust was com- 
mitted unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her 
house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her 
moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly es- 
teemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all 
is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be 
bettered and hardlv to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously 
so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn 
written to be true. 

Thomas Lucye. 

2 Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob- 
serves, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, 
and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and the dee] ness of their 
throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden 
of nobilitv, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, 
and lmveiiisfist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a 
Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, 
o'er, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. 
His irreat hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk 
perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, 
lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 



270 The Sketch-Booh. 

redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when 
the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As 
I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I 
pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been 
the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- 
ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself 
the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, 
pages, and blue-coated serving-men, with their badges; 
while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chop- 
fallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whip- 
pers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. 
I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from 
the half-opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair 
daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eying 
the youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in 
womanhood." — Who would thought that this poor varlet, 
thus trembling before the brief authority of a country 
squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become 
the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, 
the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer im- 
mortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 
I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a 
last year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of cara- 
ways; " but I had already spent so much of the day in my 
ramblings that I was obliged to give up any further inves- 
tigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by 
the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I 
would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hos- 
pitality which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom 
meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue 
which the present representative of the Lucys inherits 
from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his carica- 
ture, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as 
witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. 

By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night ... I will 
not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be 
admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be ex- 



Stratford- on- Avon. 271 

cused . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens ; a 
joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell Wil- 
liam Cook. 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary 
scenes and characters connected, with it, that I seemed to 
be actually living among them. Everything brought them 
as it were before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining- 
room opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of 
Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : — 

"Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide! 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the 
magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to 
things and places a charm and character not their own, 
and to turn this " working-day world " into a perfect fairy 
land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell oper- 
ates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the 
heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had 
been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had sur- 
veyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which 
tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had 
been surrounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy noth- 
ings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had 
all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize 
beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her com- 
panion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, 
had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff 
and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, 
down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne 
Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who 
has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illu- 
sions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
in my checkered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a 
lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of 
social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 



272 The Sketch- Book. 

paused to contemplate the distant church in which the 
poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic- 
tion, which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and 
hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have de- 
rived from being mingled in dusty companionship with the 
epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled 
multitude ? What would a crowded corner in Westminster 
Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which 
seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso- 
leum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but the off- 
spring of an over- wrought sensibility; but human nature is 
made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tender- 
est affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. 
He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped 
a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there 
is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul 
as that which springs up in his native place. It is there 
that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among his 
kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart 
and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life 
is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the 
mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of 
his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 
world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should 
return to it covered with renown ; that his name should be- 
come the boast and glory of his native place ; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 
treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his 
eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one 
day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle land- 
scape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his 
tomb ! 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 



I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin 
hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and 
naked, and he clothed him not. 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 



There is something in the character and habits of the 
North American savage, taken in connection with the 
scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast 
lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless 
plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sub- 
lime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for 
the desert. His nature is stern, simple and enduring; 
fitted to grapple with difficulties and support privations. 
There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of 
the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but take the 
trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and ha- 
bitual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual 
observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man 
of civilized life by more of those sympathies and affections 
than are usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 
wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed 
of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently 
wanton warfare ; and their characters have been traduced 
by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist often 
treated them like beasts of the forest; and the author 
has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The for- 
mer found it easier to exterminate than to civilize; the 
latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appellations 
of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction 
the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of 

273 



274 The Sketch-Booh, 

the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they 
were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly ap- 
preciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has 
too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been 
regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was 
a question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is 
cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, 
and he is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be 
expected from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile 
and is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, 
exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain 
learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, 
endeavored to investigate and record the real characters 
and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- 
ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to incul- 
cate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to 
protect them from fraud and injustice. 1 The current opin- 
ion of the Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed 
from the miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and 
hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too com- 
monly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and en- 
feebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by 
its civilization. That proud independence, which formed 
the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, 
and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are 
humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their 
native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowl- 
edge and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society 
has advanced upon them like one of those withering airs 
that will sometimes breed desolation over a whole region of 
fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their 
diseases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the 

1 The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to 
ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the 
arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from 
the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individ- 
uals is permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a 
present, without the express sanction of government. These precautions are 
strictly enforced. 



Traits of Indian Character. 275 

low vices of artificial life. It lias given them a thousand 
superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of 
mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the 
chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of 
the 'settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter 
forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find 
the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and rem- 
nants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vi- 
cinity of the settlements, and sunk into a precarious and vag- 
abond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, 
a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their 
spirits, and blights every free and noble quality of their na- 
tures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and 
pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settle- 
ments, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate 
comforts, which only render them sensible of the compara- 
tive wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads 
its ample board before their eyes ; but they are excluded 
from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they 
are starving in the midst of its abundance : the whole wil- 
derness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as rep- 
tiles that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means 
of gratification within their reach. They saw every one 
around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hard- 
ships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the same 
rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open to the 
homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the trees, but 
he was welcome to sit down by its fire, and join the hunter 
in his repast. "For," says an old historian of New Eng- 
land, " their life is so void of care, and they are so loving 
also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as com- 
mon goods, and are therein so compassionate, that rather 
than one should starve through want, they would starve all; 
thus they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, 
but are better content with their own, which some men 
esteem so meanly of." Such were the Indians, whilst in 
the pride and energy of their primitive natures : they 



276 The Sketch-Book. 

resemble those wild plants, which thrive best in the 
shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultiva- 
tion, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exag- 
geration, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. 
They have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum- 
stances in which the Indians have been placed, and the 
peculiar principles under which they have been educated. 
No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His 
whole conduct is regulated according to some general max- 
ims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that 
govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he conforms 
to them all; — the white man abounds in laws of religion, 
morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is 
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wanton- 
ness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will sud- 
denly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men 
with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, 
oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with 
that confidence and frankness which are indispensable to 
real friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed not to 
offend against those feelings of pride or superstition, which 
often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere con- 
siderations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, 
but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide 
a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in 
steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his 
superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects; but 
the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and 
furnish motives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently 
appreciate. Where a community is also limited in number, 
and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian 
tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ; 
and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously 
diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion 
and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the 
fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and super- 



Traits of Indian Character. 277 

stition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The 
orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought 
up to a kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the 
prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant 
in an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. 
The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of 
the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of 
the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been 
decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence 
which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. 
Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes 
of their ancestors, when by chance they have been travel- 
ling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from 
the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, 
have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried 
perhaps in the woods, where the bones of their tribes were 
anciently deposited; and there have passed hours in silent 
meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, 
the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gath- 
ered his men together, and addressed them in the following 
beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious speci- 
men of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial 
piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as 
my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes w^ere fast 
closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was 
much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit 
cried aloud, < Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see 
the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee 
warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge 
of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a 
despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable 
customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the com- 
mon people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth 
complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, 
who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, 



278 The Sketch-BooJc. 

I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This 
said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able 
scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect 
my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your 
counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends 
to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have 
been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise 
from deep and generous motives, which our inattention 
to Indian character and customs prevents our properly 
appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians 
is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin 
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, 
though sometimes called nations, were never so formidable 
in their numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was 
sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case when they had 
been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance 
occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been 
formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven 
away, by the capture and massacre of its principal fight- 
ing men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the 
victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel 
revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians 
had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous 
nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the 
manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed 
by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who 
are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in 
the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence 
and affection of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable 
and tender is their entertainment, that when the alterna- 
tive is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with 
their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and 
the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What 
was formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has 
been exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They 



Traits of Indian Character. 279 

cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers 
of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, 
and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to 
battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they 
have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness 
and despair by the wide-spreading desolation, and the over- 
whelming ruin of European warfare. The whites have too 
frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their 
villages, and laying waste their slender means of subsist- 
ence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show mod- 
eration and magnanimity towards those who have left them 
nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treach- 
erous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference 
to open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their 
rude code of honor. They are taught early that stratagem 
is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace 
to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he 
triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has 
been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, 
man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, 
owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other 
animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of de- 
fence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but 
man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his en- 
counters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to strat- 
agem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against 
his fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtile mode 
of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
our enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and this of 
course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous cour- 
age which induces us to despise the suggestions of pru- 
dence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the off- 
spring of society, and produced by education. It is hon- 
orable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment 
over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those 
yearnings after personal ease and security, which society 
has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the 



280 The Sketch-Booh. 

fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome 
by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the 
imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also 
by various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring 
song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have 
delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction ; and 
even the historian has forgotton the sober gravity of nar- 
ration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in 
its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been 
its reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its 
skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to per- 
petuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus arti- 
ficially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and 
factitious degree of heroism : and arrayed in all the glori- 
ous " pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent qual- 
ity has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but 
invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human char- 
acter, and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of 
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhi- 
bition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and 
risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or 
rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an 
interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, 
whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is 
always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his 
hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through 
the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles among clouds 
and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the 
pathless fields of air ; — so the Indian holds his course, 
silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom 
of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and 
danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade 
of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to 
the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pin- 
ing famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no 
obstacles to his wanderings: in his light canoe of bark he 
sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the 
swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers. 



Traits of Indian Character. 281 

His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and 
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of 
the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the 
panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of 
the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the 
Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude 
with which he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed we 
here behold him rising superior to the white man, in con- 
sequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to 
glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly 
contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, 
amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and the 
protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in tor- 
menting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of 
torture : and as the devouring flames prey on his very 
vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his 
last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an uncon- 
quered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to 
witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo- 
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate 
natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, 
which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memo- 
ries. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude 
annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded 
with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for 
themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and sym- 
pathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in 
New England, there is a touching account of the desolation 
carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity 
shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate 
butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an 
Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped 
in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and 
slain in attempting to escape, " all being despatched and 
ended in the course of an hour." After a series of simi- 
lar transactions, " our soldiers," as the historian piously 



282 The Sketch-Booh. 

observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to make a 
final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being 
hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with 
fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant band, the sad remnant 
of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took 
refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by de- 
spair ; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of 
their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied igno- 
miny of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at 
the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to 
submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dis- 
mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus 
situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, 
by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." 
In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day 
some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the 
woods : " the rest were left to the conquerors, of which 
many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would 
rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be 
shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. 
When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but 
dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the 
swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting close together, 
upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten 
or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of 
the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; 
so as, besides those that were found dead, many more were 
killed and sunk into the mire, and never were. minded 
more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without 
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the 
loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these 
self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive 
feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste 
the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their 
robes, and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule 
chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without resist- 



Traits of Indian Character. 283 

ance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, 
applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in the hapless 
Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen ! How truly 
are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How dif- 
ferent is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, 
from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely 
in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests 
that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any 
traces remain of them in the thickly settled states of New 
England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a 
village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, be 
the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and 
have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to min- 
gle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they 
will go the way that their brethren have gone before. 
The few hordes which still linger about the shores of 
Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the Mis- 
sissippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread 
over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along 
the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said 
to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna; and of 
those various nations that flourished about the Potomac 
and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the forests of the 
vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor 
from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost 
in forgetfulness ; and " the places that now know them 
will know them no more forever." Or if, perchance, some 
dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the 
romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his 
glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan 
deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark 
story of their wrongs and wretchedness; should he tell 
how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from 
their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down 
with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will 
either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or 



284 The Sketch-Booh 

blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their fore- 
fathers. — " We are driven back," said an old warrior, 
"until we can retreat no farther — our hatchets are 
broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extin- 
guished : — a little longer, and the white man will cease to 
persecute us — for we shall cease to exist ! " 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook : 
Train' d from his tree-rock' d cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated 
of the discovery arid settlement of America, have not 
given us more particular and candid accounts of the re- 
markable characters that flourished in savage life. The 
scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of pecul- 
iarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses 
of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively 
primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is 
something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these 
wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witness- 
ing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and 
perceiving those generous and romantic qualities which 
have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in 
spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost 
the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of 
his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The 
bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined 
away, or softened down by the levelling influence of what 
is termed good-breeding ; and he practises so many petty 
deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for 
the purpose of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish 
his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the 
contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of pol- 
ished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent 

285 



286 The Sketch-Book. 

being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates 
of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his nature, be- 
ing freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society 
is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every 
bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the 
smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who 
would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge 
into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the tor- 
rent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a 
volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, 
with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their 
wars with the settlers of New England. It is painful to 
perceive even from these partial narratives, how the foot- 
steps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the abo- 
rigines; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by 
the lust of conquest : how merciless and exterminating was 
their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how 
many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how 
many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, 
were broken down and trampled in the dust. 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa- 
chusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished 
of a number of contemporary Sachems who reigned over 
the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the 
other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of 
New England ; a band of native untaught heroes, who made 
the most generous struggle of which human nature is capa- 
ble ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, 
without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy 
of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and 
romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic 
traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shad- 
ows, in the dim twilight of tradition. 1 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called 

1 While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed 
that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the story 
of Philip of Pokanoket. 



Philip of Pok'anoket. 287 

by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the 
New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, 
their situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheart- 
ening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perish- 
ing away through sickness and hardships; surrounded by 
a howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to the 
rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an 
ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled with doleful 
forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking into 
despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthu- 
siasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- 
sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful 
chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead 
of taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, 
and expelling them from his territories, into which they 
had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a 
generous friendship, and extended towards them the rites 
of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to 
their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere 
handful of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace 
and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised 
to secure for them the good- will of his savage allies. What- 
ever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the 
integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im- 
peached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of 
the white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions, 
and to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no 
jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly 
before his death, he came once more to New Plymouth, with 
his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant 
of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion 
of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mission- 
aries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be 
made to draw off his people from their ancient faith ; but 
finding the English obstinately opposed to any such condi- 
tion, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last 
act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and 
Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the 



288 The Sketch-Book. 

residence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kind- 
ness and confidence ; and entreating that the same love and 
amity which had existed between the white men and him- 
self might be continued afterwards with his children. The 
good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered 
to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his chil- 
dren remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white 
men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his 
hereditary rights and dignity. ' The intrusive policy and 
dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation ; 
and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars 
with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur 
their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narragan- 
sets to rise against the English and drive them from the 
land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was 
warranted by facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It 
is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing meas- 
ures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to 
feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to 
grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the 
natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon 
Alexander, and to bring him before their courts. He was 
traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting 
house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers, 
unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of 
his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, 
so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, 
as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to 
return home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge 
for his reappearance : but the blow he had received was 
fatal, and before he had reached his home he fell a victim 
to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his 
lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with 
his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an 
object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was 



Philip of Pokanoket. 289 

accused of having always cherished a secret and implaca- 
ble hostility towards the whites. Such may very probably, 
and very naturally, have been the case. He considered 
them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who 
had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an in- 
fluence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of 
his Countrymen melting before them from the face of the 
earth; their territories slipping from their hands, and 
their tribes becoming feeble, scattered and dependent. It 
may be said that the soil was originally purchased by the 
settlers; but who does not know the nature of Indian pur- 
chases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Euro- 
peans always made thrifty bargains through their superior 
adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of 
territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated 
savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, 
by which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. 
Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was 
enough for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the 
Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that 
now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their 
fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- 
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his 
brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the 
contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many 
years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English, 
Mount Hope, 1 the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. 
Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and 
indefinite, began to acquire form and substance ; and he 
was at length charged with attempting to instigate the vari- 
ous eastern tribes to rise at once, and by a simultaneous 
effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is diffi- 
cult at this distant period to assign the proper credit clue to 
these early accusations against the Indians. There was a 
proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, 
on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance 
to every idle tale. Informers abounded where talebearing 

1 Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



290 The Sketch-Book. 

met with countenance and reward; and the sword was 
readily unsheathed when its success was certain, and it 
carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose nat- 
ural cunning had been quickened by a partial education 
which he had received among the settlers. He changed his 
faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility 
that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted 
for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and coun- 
sellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Find- 
ing, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering 
round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over 
to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his 
former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A 
rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several of 
his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was 
proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone 
too far to retract ; they had previously determined that 
Philip was a dangerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced 
their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility ; 
according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in 
these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their 
security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly 
afterwards found dead, in a pond, having fallen a victim to 
the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom 
was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended 
and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable 
witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punish- 
ment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the 
passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his 
very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he 
determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the 
white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted 
brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a further 
warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem 
of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accus- 
ers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself 



Philip of Pohanoket. 291 

from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of 
amity, had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation. 
Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him; 
persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; 
sent the women and children to the Narragansets for 
safety, and wherever he appeared, was continually sur- 
rounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a 
flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew 
mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. 
In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed 
by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the 
Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, 
and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth 
colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy 
times we meet with many indications of the diseased state 
of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, 
and the wildness of their situation, among trackless for- 
ests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to super- 
stitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the 
frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. Thev 
were much given also to a belief in omens. The trouble's 
with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by 
a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and 
public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow 
appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked 
upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious apparition." At 
Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighbor- 
hood, " was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, 
with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo." 1 
Others were alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by the 
discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle 
past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, 
seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied that 
they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and 
certain monstrous births, which took place about the time, 

1 The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



292 The Sketch-Book. 

filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebod- 
ings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena : to the northern lights 
which occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which 
explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through 
the top branches of the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or 
disrupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and 
echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely 
amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These 
may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have 
been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and 
listened to with that avidity with which we devour what- 
ever is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of 
these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of 
them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly 
characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and 
savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with 
superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the 
blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antag- 
onists: on the part of the Indians it was waged with the 
desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing 
to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and 
decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clergyman of the time; who dwells with horror and indig- 
nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifi- 
able, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary 
atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer 
and a traitor ; without considering that he was a true-born 
prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to 
avenge the wrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering 
power of his line ; and to deliver his native land from the 
oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such 
had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, 
and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have 
been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that ac- 



Philip of Pol-anoket. 203 

tually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession 
of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets 
forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip; 
and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations 
that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we 
find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expe- 
dients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an un- 
conquerable resolution, that command our sympathy and 
applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, be 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 
forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost imper- 
vious to anything but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he 
gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating 
its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder cloud, and 
would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, 
carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were 
now and then indications of these impending ravages, that 
filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. 
The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from 
the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no 
white man ; the cattle which had been wandering in the 
woods would sometimes return home wounded; or an Indian 
or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the for- 
ests, and suddenly disappearing ; as the lightning will some- 
times be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud 
that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the 
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously 
from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would 
be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again emerged 
at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. 
Among his strongholds, were the great swamps or morasses, 
which extend in some parts of New England ; composed of 
loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, 
brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks 
of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The 
uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy 
wilds, rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, 



294 The Sketch-Book. 

though the Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the 
agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of 
Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his 
followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fear- 
ing to venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where 
they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down 
by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to 
the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of 
starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted 
themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of 
the night, leaving the women and children behind; and 
escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war 
among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck coun- 
try, and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exagger- 
ated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in 
darkness ; whose coming none could foresee, and against 
which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole coun- 
try abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost 
possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever part of the widely 
extended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, 
Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious no- 
tions also were circulated concerning him. He was said 
to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian 
witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who assisted 
him by her charms and incantations. This indeed was fre- 
quently the case with Indian chiefs; either through their 
own credulity, or to act upon that of their followers ; and 
the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian 
superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances of 
savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, 
his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had 
been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the 
whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found 
a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Nar- 
ragansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the 
great Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honor- 



Philip of Pokanoket. 295 

able acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been pri- 
vately put to death at the perfidious instigations of the 
settlers. " He was the heir," says the old chronicler, " of 
all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his malice 
towards the English ; " — he certainly was the heir of his 
insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his mur- 
der. Though he had forborne to take an active part in this 
hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces 
with open arms ; and gave them the most generous counte- 
nance and support. This at once drew upon him the hos- 
tility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a 
signal blow that should involve both the Sachems in one 
common ruin. A great force was therefore gathered to- 
gether from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 
was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of win- 
ter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be 
traversed with comparative facility, and would no longer 
afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, 
the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress; 
where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of 
their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impreg- 
nable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, 
of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was con- 
structed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior 
to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and 
indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumul- 
tuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, 
and several of their bravest officers were shot down in the 
act of storming the fortress sword in hand. The assault 
was renewed with greater success. A lodgment was effected. 
The Indians were driven from one post to another. They 
disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury 
of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; and 
after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with 



296 The Sketch-Book. 

a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, 
and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the 
whole was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the 
women, and the children perished in the flames. This last 
outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The 
neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage and 
despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld 
the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing 
cries of their wives and offspring. " The burning of the 
wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the shrieks and 
cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the war- 
riors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that 
it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same writer 
cautiously adds, " they were in much doubt then, and after- 
wards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies 
alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevo- 
lent principles of the Gospel." l 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of 
the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause 
which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, 
offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, 
and declared that "he would fight it out to the last man, 
rather than become a servant to the English." His home 
being destroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by 
the incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander 
away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where he formed a 
rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and 
laid waste several of the English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedi- 
tion, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, 
in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to 
plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of 
adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod country, 
and were in the centre of the Narraganset, resting at some 

MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



Philip of Pokanoket. 297 

wigwams near Pawtucket River, when an alarm was given 
of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him 
at the time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the top 
of a neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror 
past their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the 
danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. 
He then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in 
confusion and affright, told him that the whole British 
army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice 
but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round the 
hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile 
Indians and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding 
the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first 
his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by 
which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and 
redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards 
confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, 
and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by 
a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he 
made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body 
and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner the 
whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; and from that 
moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, 
nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like 
heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who first 
came up with him, and who had attained his twenty-second 
year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty con- 
tempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, « You are a 
child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your 
brother or your chief come — him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet 
he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any pro- 



298 The Sketch- Booh. 

posals of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, 
that he knew none of them would comply. Being re- 
proached with his breach of faith towards the whites ; his 
boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the 
paring of a Wampanoag's nail ; and his threat that he would 
burn the English alive in their houses ; he disdained to 
justify himself, haughtily answering that others were as 
forward for the war as himself, and " he desired to hear no 
more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of 
the generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian; 
a being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no 
law, religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. 
The last words of him that are recorded, are worthy the 
greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed 
upon him, he observed "that he liked it well, for he should 
die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken anything 
unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death 
of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young 
Sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by 
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though pos- 
sessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were 
counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, 
and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the 
resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chief- 
tain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rap- 
idly thinning around him. Some were suborned by the 
whites; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to 
the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His 
stores were all captured ; his chosen friends were swept 
away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his 
side ; his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one of 
his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved 
wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," 
says the historian, " being thus gradually carried on, his 



Philip of PokanoJcet. 299 

misery was not prevented, but augmented thereby, being 
himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental 
feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, 
slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- 
tions, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before 
his own life should be taken away." 

To till up the measure of his misfortunes, his own follow- 
ers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him 
they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treach- 
ery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of 
Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman 
and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of 
the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and at- 
tempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river : 
either exhausted by swimming, or starved by cold and hun- 
ger, she was found dead and naked near the water side. 
But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even death, the 
refuge of the wretched, where the wicked commonly cease 
from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female, 
whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman 
and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and 
dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body 
and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to 
the view of her captive subjects. They immediately rec- 
ognized the features of their unfortunate queen, and were 
so affected by this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they 
broke forth into the " most horrid and diabolical lamenta- 
tions." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach- 
ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce 
him to despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced 
afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The 
spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was 
extinguished — he looked around, and all was danger and 
darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could 
bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who 
still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy 
Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the 



300 The Sketch-BooJc. 

ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like 
a spectre, among the scenes of former power and prosperity, 
now bereft of home, of family and friend. There needs no 
better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, than 
that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is 
unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the 
hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " like 
a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English 
forces through the woods, above a hundred miles backward 
and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount 
Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into 
a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till 
the messengers of death came by divine permission to exe- 
cute vengeance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sul- 
len grandeur gathers around his memory. We picture him 
to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brood- 
ing in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a 
savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his 
lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to 
the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more 
haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satis- 
faction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little 
minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great 
minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened 
the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his follow- 
ers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of 
the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the 
retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians 
were immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip 
lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he 
was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround 
him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers 
laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed 
forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to 
escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado 
Indian of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate 
King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- 



Philip of JPokanoket. 301 

honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the 
prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may 
perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character suf- 
ficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his 
memory. We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and 
ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the 
softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, 
and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity 
of his "beloved wife and only son " are mentioned with ex- 
ultation as causing him poignant misery : the death of any 
near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his 
sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of 
his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to 
have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all 
further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native 
soil — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their 
wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, 
patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. 
Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural 
liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the 
forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps 
and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to sub- 
mission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and 
luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold 
achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, 
and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the his- 
torian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native 
land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid 
darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his 
fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL. 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English more 
excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving 
ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this way they 
have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but 
nations ; and, in their fondness for pushing a joke, they 
have not spared even themselves. One would think that, 
in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture 
something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is character- 
istic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their 
love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have 
embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, 
corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waist- 
coat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they 
have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most pri- 
vate foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been 
so successful in their delineations, that there is scarcely a 
being in actual existence more absolutely present to the 
public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character 
thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the 
nation ; and thus to give reality to what at first may have 
been painted in a great measure from the imagination. 
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually 
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem 

302 



John Bull. 303 

wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have 
formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad 
caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckity, 
they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apolog}^ for 
their prejudice and grossness ; and this I have especially no- 
ticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons of the 
soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow- 
bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech, 
and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is 
a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now 
and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about 
trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric old blade, 
but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears no 
malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insen- 
sibility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his 
ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for 
frippery and nicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled 
by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is 
excused under the plea of munificence — for John is always 
more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to 
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict him- 
self of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited 
in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the 
nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each 
other; and a stranger who wishes to study English pecu- 
liarities, may gather much valuable information from the 
innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the 
windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one 
of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing 
out new portraits, and presenting different aspects from 
different points of view; and, often as he has been de- 
scribed, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight 
sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearances, is a plain downright matter- 
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich 
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast 
deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more 



304 The Sketch-Book. 

than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay : melancholy rather 
than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or sur- 
prised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and 
has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, 
if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk about him- 
self; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life 
and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity 
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, 
who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the 
country round, and is most generously disposed to be every- 
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his ser- 
vices to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great 
dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence with- 
out asking his advice ; though he seldom engages in any 
friendly office of the kind without finishing by getting into 
a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at their 
ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the 
noble science of defence, and having accomplished himself 
in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a per- 
fect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a trouble- 
some life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel 
between the most distant of his neighbors, but he begins 
incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel, and 
consider whether his interest or honor does not require that 
he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his 
relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole 
country, that no event can take place, without infringing 
some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in 
his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in 
every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old 
spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so 
that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling 
his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from 
his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow 
at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst 
of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that 
he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes 



John Bull. 305 

into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling 
even when victorious ; and though no one fights with more 
obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet when the battle 
is over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much 
taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to 
let his antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrel- 
ling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so 
much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is 
difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a 
good humor, and you may bargain him out of all the money 
in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will weather 
the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard 
in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of 
pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about 
at boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a 
high head among " gentlemen of the fancy : " but immedi- 
ately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be 
taken with violent qualms of economy ; stop short at the 
most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of being ruined 
and brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, will not 
pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent alterca- 
tion. He is in fact the most punctual and discontented 
paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of his 
breeches pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the 
uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea with 
a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is 
of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he 
may afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself 
a beefsteak and pint of port one day, that he may roast 
an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his 
neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not 
so much from any great outward parade, as from the great 
consumption of solid beef and pudding; the vast number 
of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular dispo- 
sition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind 



306 The Sketch-Booh. 

and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his 
peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and 
do not peculate grossly on him before his face, they may 
manage him to perfection. Everything that lives on him 
seems to thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are well 
paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses are 
sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage ; 
and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will 
hardly bark at a house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten 
appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is 
a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and 
ages. The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architec- 
ture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak 
can make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full 
of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers ; 
and though these have been partially lighted up in modern 
days, yet there are many places where you must still grope 
in the dark. Additions have been made to the original 
edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken 
place ; towers and battlements have been erected during 
wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; and out- 
houses, lodges, and oftices, run up according to the whim or 
convenience of different generations, until it has become 
one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. 
An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a rever- 
end pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, 
indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at 
various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. 
Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's 
ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and 
well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined 
to church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of 
their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but 
he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from 
the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have been 
erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with 
whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists. 



John Bull. 307 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most 
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred 
Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opin- 
ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the 
children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting 
the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, 
above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without 
grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich, 
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of 
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample 
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting 
halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, 
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but 
a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms 
apparently deserted and time-worn ; and towers and tur- 
rets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high winds there 
is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house- 
hold. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless 
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with their 
materials ; but the old gentleman always grows testy on 
this subject. He swears the house is an excellent house — 
that it is tight and weather proof, and not to be shaken by 
tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and, 
therefore, is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its 
being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the incon- 
veniences, and would not be comfortable without them — 
that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction, these 
result from its being the growth of centuries, and being 
improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old 
family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new, 
upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug 
boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit an old 
English manor-house. If you point out any part of the 



308 The Sketch-Booh. 

building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the 
strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the 
whole ; and swears that the parts are so built into each 
other, that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having 
the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dispo- 
sition to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable 
to the dignity of an ancient and honorable family, to be 
bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by 
dependents ; and so, partly from pride, and partly from 
kindheartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter 
and maintenance to his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old 
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which 
he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of 
invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large 
for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in 
housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef- 
eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery 
and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over 
its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon 
the benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is 
garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families ; for 
they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure 
to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. 
A mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering 
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop- 
hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who 
has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most 
grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over 
the head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an 
appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so 
that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding 
all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard 
in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze 
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy 



John Bull. 309 

example of grateful recollection, which if some of his neigh- 
bors were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. In- 
deed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these old 
steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol 
their past services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of 
the perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which 
they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. 
His manor is infested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not 
suffer them to be driven off, because they have infested the 
place time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon 
every generation of the family. He will scarcely permit a 
dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround 
the house, lest it should molest the rooks, that have bred 
there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the 
dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and must not be 
disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney 
with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ; 
crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather- 
cock; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes un- 
dauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such a 
reverence for everything that has been long in the family, 
that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed, 
because they are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself 
on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain 
his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great 
perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been 
increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are 
continually taking place in his family. His children have 
been brought up to different callings, and are of different 
ways of thinking ; and as they have always been allowed 
to speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the 
privilege most clamorously in the present posture of his 
affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are 
clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its 



310 The Sketch-Book. 

state, whatever maybe the cost; others, who are more pru- 
dent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench 
his expenses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping 
on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, 
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their whole- 
some advice has been completely defeated by the obstreper- 
ous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated 
fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to 
frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, and a 
complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. 
No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform 
or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of 
their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his 
tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He rants about 
the room ; hectors the old man about his spendthrift prac- 
tices ; ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall 
turn the old servants out of doors ; give the broken-down 
horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain packing, and 
take a field preacher in his place — nay, that the whole 
family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a 
plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails 
at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks 
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives 
up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the 
emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his 
pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and even runs 
urj scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his 
father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has 
become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere 
mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl 
between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too 
sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown 
out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of 
wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is 
fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has 
served abroad, but is at present living at home on half-pay. 
This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or 



John Bull. 311 

wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering 
life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and flour- 
ish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself 
against paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and 
are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People 
begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his 
affairs are mentioned. They all " hope that matters are not 
so bad with him as represented ; but when a man's own 
children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be 
badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over 
head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money 
lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, 
but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never 
knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is 
a very tine one, and has been in the family a long time ; 
but, for all that, they have known many finer estates come 
to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and 
smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late 
become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. 
His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so 
bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed before the 
wind, now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a 
calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, 
and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that 
yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three- 
cornered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bring- 
ing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the 
ground ; looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling 
out a stave of a catch or a drinking song ; he now goes 
about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head 
drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his 
hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which 
are evidently empty. 



312 The Sketch-Book. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet 
for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as 
ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or con- 
cern, he takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the rich- 
est and stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out 
large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate ; and 
with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs 
exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all 
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation with- 
out strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors 
and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. 
He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks 
himself, but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors 
represent him. His virtues are all his own ; all plain, 
homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack of the 
raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance savors of 
his generosity; his quarrelsomeness of his courage; his 
credulity of his open faith; his vanity of his pride; and his 
bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies 
of a rich and liberal character. Pie is like his own oak, 
rough without, but sound and solid within ; whose bark 
abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and 
grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches make a fear- 
ful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their 
very magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, 
in the appearance of his old family mansion that is ex- 
tremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be 
rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to 
see it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes 
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good 
architects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are 
mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work with 
their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop 
until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried 
themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's 
present troubles may teach him more prudence in future ; 
that he may cease to distress his mind about other people's 
affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to pro- 



John Bull. 313 

mote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness 
of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain 
quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cul- 
tivate his rich estate according to his fancy ; husband his 
income — if he thinks proper ; bring his unruly children 
into order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient 
prosperity; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, 
an honorable, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



May no wolfe howle ; or screech-owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulcher! 

No boysterouse winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring, 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the 
country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situa- 
tion of which was beautifully rural and retired. There was 
an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to 
be found in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. 
I determined to pass the night there, and having taken an 
early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon 
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from 
the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its 
old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only 
here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or 
a fantastically carved ornament, peered through the ver- 
dant covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of 
the day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it 
had cleared up ; and though sullen clouds still hung over- 
head, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, 
from which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping 
leaves, and lit up all nature with a melancholy smile. It 
seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling 
on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the 
serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again 
in glory. 



The Pride of the Village. 315 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant 
and those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of 
melancholy fancying, which has in it something sweeter 
even than pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a 
bell from the neighboring tower fell on my ear ; its tones 
were in unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, 
chimed in with my feelings ; and it was some time before I 
recollected that it must be tolling the knell of some new 
tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reap- 
peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the 
place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by 
young girls, dressed in white ; and another, about the age 
of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white 
flowers ; a token that the deceased was a young and un- 
married female. The corpse was followed by the parents. 
They were a venerable couple of the better order of peas- 
antry. The father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his 
fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply furrowed face, showed 
the struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on 
his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a 
mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, 
with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which 
the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service ; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed 
some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed 
over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in 
the bloom of existence — what can be more affecting? At 
that simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to 
the grave — " Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to 
dust!" — the tears of the youthful companions of the 
deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to 
struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the 



316 The Sketch-Book. 

assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; 
but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the 
field cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness; 
she was like Rachel, " mourning over her children, and 
would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the 
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. 
Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was 
reduced in circumstances. This was an only child, and 
brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. 
She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite 
lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her 
education with paternal care ; it was limited, and suitable 
to the sphere in which she was to move ; for he only sought 
to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to raise 
her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her par- 
ents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had 
fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character, that 
accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She 
appeared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming 
accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
by her companions, but without envy; for it was surpassed 
by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her 
manners. It might be truly said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems. 
But smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still 
retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its 
rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some 
faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, 
indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor, who was 
a lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians 
that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth 
and good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the 
May-pole stood from year to year in the centre of the vil- 



The Pride of the Village. 317 

lage green; on May-day it was decorated with garlands 
and streamers; and a queen or lady of the May was 
appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and 
distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situa- 
tion of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, 
would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among 
these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose regiment 
had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. He was 
charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village 
pageant ; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness of the 
queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was 
crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the 
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The 
artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her 
acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy; 
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which 
young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love : but there are modes of mak- 
ing it more eloquent than language, and which convey it 
subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the 
eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which 
emanate from every word, and look, and action — these 
form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt 
and understood, but never described. Can we wonder that 
they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and sus- 
ceptible? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she 
scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was 
absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be 
its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. 
When present, his looks and words occupied her whole 
attention; when absent, she thought but of what had 
passed at their recent interview. She would wander with 
him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in 
the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into 
her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between 
the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant 



318 The Sketch-Book. 

figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his mil- 
itary attire, might first have charmed her eye ; but it was 
not these that had captivated her heart. Her attachment 
had something in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as 
to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society the 
enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and 
now first awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful 
and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune 
she thought nothing ; it was the difference of intellect, of 
demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic society to 
which she had been accustomed, that elevated him in her 
opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and 
downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle 
with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of 
timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she 
would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
un worthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun 
the connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother 
officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 
triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of - 
spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart 
had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a 
wandering and a dissipated life: it caught fire from the 
very flame it sought to kindle ; and before he was aware of 
the nature of his situation, he became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles 
which so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. 
His rank in life — the prejudices of titled connections — 
his dependence on a proud and unyielding father — all for- 
bade him to think of matrimony: — but when he looked 
down upon this innocent being, so tender and confiding, 
there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her 
life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks that awed down 
every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify himself 
by a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion ; and to 
chill the glow of generous sentiment with that cold derisive 
levity with which he had heard them talk of female virtue : 



The Pride of the Village. 319 

whenever he came into her presence, she was still sur- 
rounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin 
purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair 
to the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He 
remained for a short time in a state of the most painful 
irresolution ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until 
the day for marching was at hand ; when he gave her the 
intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked 
upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with 
the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his 
bosom, and kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did 
he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled 
sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affec- 
tion. He was naturally impetuous ; and the sight of beauty, 
apparently yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power 
over her, and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired 
to overwhelm his better feelings — he ventured to propose 
that she should leave her home, and be the companion of 
his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and 
faltered at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was 
his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to com- 
prehend his meaning ; and why she should leave her native 
village, and the humble roof of her parents. When at last 
the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the 
effect was withering. She did not weep — she did not 
break forth into reproach — she said not a word — but she 
shrunk back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a look of 
anguish that pierced to his very soul; and, clasping her 
hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repent- 
ant. It is uncertain what might have been the result of 
the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been 
diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new 
pleasures, and new companions, soon dissipated his self-re- 
proach, and stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of 



320 The Sketch- Book. 

camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and 
even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal 
back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity — 
the white cottage — the footpath along the silver brook and 
up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loiter- 
ing along it, leaning on his arm, and listening to him with 
eyes beaming with unconscious affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the 
destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. 
Faintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender 
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melan- 
choly. She had beheld from her window the march of the 
departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne 
off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trum- 
pet, and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze 
after him, as the morning sun glittered about his figure, 
and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away like a 
bright vision from her sight, and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she 
had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the 
stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood 
over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Some- 
times she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the 
porch of the village church ; and the milkmaids, returning 
from the fields, would now and then overhear her singing 
some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became 
fervent in her devotions at church ; and as the old people 
saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, 
and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses around the 
form, they would make way for her, as for something spirit- 
ual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads in 
gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord 
that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there 
seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her 
gentle bosom had entertained resentment against her lover 



The Pride of the Village. 321 

it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions ; 
and in a moment of saddened tenderness, she penned him a 
farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest language, 
but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that 
she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his con- 
duct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which 
she had experienced; but concluded with saying, that she 
could not die in peace, until she had sent him her forgive- 
ness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, 
where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit 
all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered 
no complaint, nor imparted to any one the malady that was 
preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's 
name ; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and 
weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, 
over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- 
selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the 
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek 
might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was 
thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it 
the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own 
hands had trained around the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible ; 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of 
heaven : it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity 
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil- 
lage church ; the bell had tolled for the evening service ; 
the last villager was lagging into the porch; and every- 
thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the 
day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning 
hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over 
some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph's. 
A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — Was she thinking 
of her faithless lover? — or were her thoughts wandering 
to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might 
soon be gathered ? 



322 The Sketch- Book. 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in 
her chair : it was her repentant lover ! He rushed into the 
house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted 
form — her deathlike countenance — so wan, yet so lovely 
in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, and he threw 
himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise — 
she attempted to extend her trembling hand — her lips 
moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she 
looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tender- 
ness, — and closed her eyes forever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little 
novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for 
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may 
appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me 
strongly at the time ; and, taken in connection with the 
affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper 
impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more 
striking nature. I have passed through the place since, 
and visited the church again, from a better motive than 
mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees were 
stripped of their foliage ; the churchyard looked naked and 
mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry 
grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted about the 
grave of the village favorite, and osiers were bent over it 
to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the 
funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care 
seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their 
whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where art has 
exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spec- 
tator, but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly 
to my heart, than this simple but delicate memento of 
departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER. 



This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flic 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring 
life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I sus- 
pect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen 
who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with 
angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to 
the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect 
studying his Complete Angler several years since, in com- 
pany with a knot of friends in America, and moreover 
that we were all completely bitten with the angling mania. 
It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was 
auspicious, and the spring began to melt into the verge 
of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the coun- 
try, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading 
books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of 
his equipments : being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. 
He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a 
hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; 
a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing 
net, and a score of other inconveniences, only to be found 
in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, 
he was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among 

323 



324 The Sketch-Booh. 

the country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as 
was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds 
of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the 
execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic 
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book 
of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap 
down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the 
trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless 
weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping 
with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret 
along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with 
murmurs ; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth 
into open day with the most placid demure face imaginable ; 
as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after fill- 
ing her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out 
of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon all 
the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such 
times, through some bosom of green meadow-land among 
the mountains : where the quiet was only interrupted by the 
occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among 
the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe from the 
neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that require either patience or adroitness, and had not 
angled above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied 
the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak 
Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — 
a man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the 
fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my 
rod ; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the 
day under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was 
his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling 
that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. 
My companions, however, were more persevering in their 



The Angler. 325 

delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, 
stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to 
the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I 
see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break 
in upon his rarely invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watch- 
ing them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs 
the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills ; the 
tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the stone or 
log on which he is sunning himself ; and the panic-struck 
frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading 
an alarm throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lub- 
berly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod 
made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as 
Heaven shall help me ! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, 
baited with a vile earthworm — and in half an hour caught 
more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry " repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just 
by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of 
a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of the party read 
old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on 
the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I 
fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I 
cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, which are 
passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been 
called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long 
since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- 
tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills 
and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted 
to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found 
it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. 
The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with 
clothes very much but very carefully patched, betokening 
poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His 
face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair 



326 The Sketch-Booh. 

weather; its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile ; 
his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had alto- 
gether the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher 
who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his 
companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of 
an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to 
any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the dark- 
est night. The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, 
with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic 
beau. The old man was busy in examining the maw of a 
trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents 
what insects were seasonable for bait; and was lecturing 
on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen 
with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all 
" brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. 
They are men he affirms of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable 
spirit " ; and my esteem for them has been increased since I 
met with an old Tretyse of fishing with the Angle, in which 
are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fra- 
ternity. "Take good hede," sayeth this honest little 
tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye open no 
man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not 
use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the 
encreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally 
for your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and 
specyally of your soule." * 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and 
there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite 
drew me towards him. I could not but remark the gallant 
manner in which he stumped from one part of the brook to 
another ; waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from 
dragging on the ground, or catching among the bushes ; 
and the adroitness with which he would throw his fly to 

1 From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industri- 
ous and devout employment than it is generally considered. — "For when ye 
purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many 
persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve 
God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus 
doying,ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydlenes, which is a 
principall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 



The Angler. 327 

any particular place; sometimes skimming it lightly along 
a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those dark 
holes macle by a twisted root or overhanging bank in which 
the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was 
giving instructions to his two disciples; showing them the 
manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their 
flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The 
scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage 
Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that 
pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was 
a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful 
vale of Gessford, and just where the interior Welsh hills 
begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. 
The day, too, like that recorded in his work, w r as mild and 
sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that 
sowed the whole earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation w T ith the old angler, and 
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost the 
whole day; wandering along the banks of the stream, and 
listening to his talk. He was very communicative, having 
all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was 
a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his 
piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play 
the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 
passed some years of his youth in America, particularly in 
Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been 
ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards 
experienced many ups and downs, in life, until he got into 
the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon ball, 
at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of 
real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a 
pension, which, together with some small paternal property, 
brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this 
he retired to his native village, where he lived quietly and 
independently ; and devoted the remainder of his life to 
the " noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 



328 The Sketch-Booh. 

he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and 
prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted 
about the world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, 
was good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly 
used in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by 
every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with 
candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good 
side of things : and, above all, he was almost the only man 
I had ever met with who had been an unfortunate adven- 
turer in America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough 
to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse the 
country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I 
learnt, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow 
who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some 
expectation, and much courted by the idle gentlemanlike 
personages of the place. In taking him under his care, 
therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a privileged 
corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful 
ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling — if we could for- 
get, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures 
inflicted on worms and insects — that tends to produce a 
gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the 
English are methodical even in their recreations, and are 
the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among 
them to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an amuse- 
ment peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated 
scenery of England, where every roughness has been soft- 
ened away from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter 
along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of 
silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading 
one through a diversity of small home scenery; sometimes 
winding through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming 
along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is 
mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing 
in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capri- 
ciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness and 
serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, 
gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are now 



The Angler. 329 

and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the 
distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of 
some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming 
transiently about its glassy surface. " When I would beget 
content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confidence in 
the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I 
will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there 
contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very 
many other little living creatures that are not only created, 
but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God 
of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the 
same innocent and happy sjririt : 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 
And on the world and my Creator think: 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. x 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place 
of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the 
village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to 
seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, con- 
taining only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method 
and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a 
green bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden 
in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a 
few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun 

1 J. Davors. 



330 The Sketch-Booh. 

with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weather- 
cock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, 
his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired 
on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung 
from the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was lashed up so 
as to take but little room. From the centre of the chamber 
hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or 
three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the 
principal movables. About the wall were stuck up naval 
ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, 
and Tom Bowline, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, 
among which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished 
place. The mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells; 
over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of 
most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements 
for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks 
about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, con- 
taining a work on angling, much worn, a Bible covered 
with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical 
almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated 
himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and which 
uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling 
tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded 
me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was kept 
in neat order, everything being « stowed away" with the 
regularity of a ship of war ; and he informed me that he 
" scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between 
meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking 
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring 
soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the centre 
of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a 
history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general 
would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated 
in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, 
which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and 
which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 



The Angler. 331 

How comforting it is to see a eheerfnl and contented old 
age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tem- 
pest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet 
harbor in the evening of his days ! His happiness, how- 
ever, sprung from within himself, and was independent of 
external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible good- 
nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spread- 
ing itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keep- 
ing the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a 
universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap- 
room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, 
like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of strange 
lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much no- 
ticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had 
taught several of them the art of angling ; and was a priv- 
ileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life 
was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about 
the neighboring streams, when the weather and season were 
favorable ; and at other times he employed himself at home, 
preparing his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or man- 
ufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils 
among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though 
he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made 
it his particular request that when he died he should be 
buried in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in 
church, and which he had marked out ever since he was a 
boy, and had thought of when far from home on the raging 
sea, in danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot 
where his father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this 
worthy " brother of the angle " ; who has made me more than 
ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be 
adroit in the practice of his art : and I will conclude this 
rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by 
craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon my reader, 
"and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare 
trust in his Providence ; and be quiet ; and go a " angling." 



THE LEGEND OF S L E E P Y H O L L O W. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPEES OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKEEBOCKEK. 



A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye ; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 



In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent 
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of 
the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 
Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened 
sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they 
crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which 
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally 
and properly known by the name of Tarry town. This 
name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good 
housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate 
propensity of their husbands to linger about the village 
tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch 
for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being 
precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps 
about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of 
land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places 
in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with 
just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occa- 
sional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is 
almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform 
tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- 
rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades 

332 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 333 

one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, 
when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the 
roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness 
around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry 
echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I 
might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream 
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none 
more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the 
original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been 
known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads 
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neigh- 
boring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang 
over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some 
say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, 
during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an old 
Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his 
powwows there before the country was discovered by Mas- 
ter Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues 
under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell 
over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in 
a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvel- 
lous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions; and fre- 
quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in 
the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, 
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and 
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other 
part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine 
fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the 
powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback 
without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a 
Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a 
cannon ball, in some nameless battle during the revolution- 
ary war ; and who is ever and anon seen by the country 
folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the 
wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the val- 



334 The Sketch- Book. 

ley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and espec- 
ially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. In- 
deed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, 
who have been careful in collecting and collating the float- 
ing facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of 
the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost 
rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his 
head ; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes 
passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to 
his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church- 
yard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the 
country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman 
of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 
valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who re- 
sides there for a time. However wide awake they may 
have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are 
sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the 
air, and begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and 
see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for 
it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and 
there embosomed in the great State of New York, that 
population, manners, and customs, remain fixed ; while the 
great torrent of migration and improvement, which is 
making such incessant changes in other parts of this rest- 
less country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like 
those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream; 
where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at 
anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undis- 
turbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many 
years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy 
Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the 
same trees and the same families vegetating in its shel- 
tered bosom, 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 335 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period 
of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, 
a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who so- 
journed, or, as he expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, 
for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. 
He was a native of Connecticut ; a State which supplies 
the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the 
forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woods- 
men and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane 
was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but ex- 
ceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, 
hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that 
might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most 
loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, 
with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe 
nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon 
his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see 
him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with 
his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might 
have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending 
upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most 
ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted 
in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window 
shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect 
ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an 
idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van 
Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The schoolhouse 
stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the 
foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a 
formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From 
hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over 
their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, 
like the hum of a bee-hive ; interrupted now and then by 
the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace 
or command ; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of 
the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery 



336 The Sketch- Book. 

path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious 
man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "Spare the 
rod and spoil the child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars cer- 
tainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one 
of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the 
smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered 
justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking 
the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those 
of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at 
the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; 
but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double 
portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted 
Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged 
and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing 
his duty by their parents " ; and he never inflicted a chas- 
tisement without following it by the assurance, so consola- 
tory to the smarting urchin, that " he would remember it, 
and thank him for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the compan- 
ion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday after- 
noons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who 
happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for 
mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed 
it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. 
The revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily 
bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the 
dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help out his main- 
tenance, he was, according to country custom in those 
parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, 
whose children he instructed. With these he lived suc- 
cessively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds of the 
neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a 
cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both use- 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 337 

fill and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in 
the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; 
mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the 
cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He 
laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway 
with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and 
became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found 
favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, 
particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which 
whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit 
with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot 
for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take 
his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of 
chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely car- 
ried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his 
voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation ; 
and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that 
chnrch, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite 
to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday 
morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from 
the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make- 
shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denom- 
inated " by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got 
on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who under- 
stood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonder- 
fully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being consid- 
ered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly su- 
perior taste and accomplishments to the rough country 
swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. 
His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir 
at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a su- 
pernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, 
the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, there- 



338 The Sketch- Book. 

fore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country 
damsels. How he would figure among them in the church- 
yard, between services on Sundays ! Gathering grapes for 
them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding 
trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the 
tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, 
along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more 
bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying 
his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel- 
ling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from 
house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted 
with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the 
women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several 
books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton 
Mather's History of New England Witchcraft, in which, 
by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his 
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and 
both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound 
region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capa- 
cious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school 
was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the 
rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered 
by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful 
tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the 
printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he 
wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful wood- 
land, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, 
every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his 
excited imagination ; the moan of the whip-poor-will 1 from 
the hillside ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger 
of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the 
sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly 
in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of 

i The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its 
name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 339 

uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; and if, 
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to 
give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either 
to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
psalm tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as 
they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
with awe at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweet- 
ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat 
spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 
spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous 
tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted 
brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and par- 
ticularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of 
the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would de- 
light them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of 
the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the 
air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; 
and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon 
comets and shooting stars ; and with the alarming fact that 
the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were 
half the time topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of 
a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of 
course, no spectre dared to "show his face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk home- 
wards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path 
amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With 
what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light 
streaming across the waste fields from some distant win- 
dow ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub covered 
with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very 
path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the 
sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his 



340 The Sketch-Bool: 

feet ; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should 
behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! — 
and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by 
some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea 
that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly 
scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- 
toms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he 
had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than 
once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely peram- 
bulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and 
he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in spite of the 
devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by 
a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than 
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, 
and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was 
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a sub- 
stantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh 
eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and 
rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally 
famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. 
She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived 
even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and 
modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. 
She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her 
great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; 
the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and withal a 
provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and 
ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the 
sex ; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a 
morsel soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially after 
he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus 
Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, 
liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either 
his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own 
farm - } but within those everything was snug, happy, and 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 341 

well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but 
not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abun- 
dance, rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- 
hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of 
those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch 
farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread 
its broad branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up 
a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, 
formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling away through 
the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along 
among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse 
was a vast barn that might have served for a church; 
every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth 
with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resound- 
ing within it from morning to night; swallows and martins 
skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, 
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, 
some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their 
bosoms, and others swelling and cooing, and bowing about 
their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. 
Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose 
and abundance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now 
and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A 
stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoin- 
ing pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of 
turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea 
fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with 
their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn door 
strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- 
rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, 
and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — some- 
times tearing up the earth with his feet, and then gener- 
ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children 
to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his de- 
vouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting- 
pig running about with a pudding in his belly and an apple 
in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a com- 



342 The Sketch-Book. 

fortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the 
geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks 
pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a 
decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw 
carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- 
ing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, 
with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck- 
lace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer him- 
self lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted 
claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit 
disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the 
rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, 
and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which sur- 
rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned 
after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his 
imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be 
readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense 
tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. 
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- 
sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family 
of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with 
household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling be- 
neath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, 
with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Ten- 
nessee, or the Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with 
high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style 
handed down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low pro- 
jecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of 
being closed up in bad weather. Tinder this were hung 
flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for 
fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along 
the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at 
one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses 
to which this important porch might be devoted. From 
this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 343 

formed the centre of the mansion and the place of usual 
residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a 
long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge 
bag of wool ready to be spun ; in another a quantity of 
linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and 
strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons 
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; 
and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, 
where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables, 
shone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompanying 
shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus 
tops ; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantel- 
piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs w r ere sus- 
pended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the 
centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left 
open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- 
mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, 
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
peerless daughter of Yan Tassel. In this enterprise, how- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the 
lot of a knight- errant of yore, who seldom had anything but 
giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily con- 
quered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make his 
way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of 
adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart 
was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a man 
would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; and 
then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart 
of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of wdiims and 
caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and 
impediments ; and he had to encounter a host of fearful 
adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic ad- 
mirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a 
watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly 
out in the common cause against any new competitor. 

Among these, the most formidable one was a burly, roar- 



344 The Sketch-Book. 

ing, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, accord- 
ing to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero 
of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength 
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- 
jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by 
which he was universally known. He was famed for great 
knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on 
horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and 
cock-fights ; and, with the ascendency which bodily strength 
acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting 
his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and 
tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always 
ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief 
than ill-will in his composition ; and, with all his overbear- 
ing roughness, there was a' strong dash of waggish good- 
humor at the bottom. He had three or four boon 
companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the 
head of whom he scoured the country, attending every 
scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold 
weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted 
with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country 
gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, 
whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always 
stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard 
dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop 
and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old 
dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment 
till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, 
" Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " The neigh- 
bors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, 
and good- will; and when any madcap prank, or rustic 
brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, 
and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 345 

gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was 
whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. 
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates 
to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his 
amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to 
Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his 
master was courting, or, as it is termed, " sparking," within, 
all other suitors passed by in despair and carried the war 
into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whomlchabod Crane 
had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man 
than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a 
wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a 
happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; 
he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but 
tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and though he 
bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it 
was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his head as 
high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
gently-insinuating manner. Undercover of his character 
of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm- 
house ; not that he had anything to apprehend from the 
meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a 
stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel 
was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter better 
even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His 
notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her 
housekeeping and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely 
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be 
looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus 
while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her 
spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a 



346 The Sketch-Book. 

sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind 
on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod 
would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of 
the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the 
twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, 
or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, 
and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a 
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater 
proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, 
for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and 
window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is there- 
fore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed 
sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Cer- 
tain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom 
Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his 
advances, the interests of the former rapidly declined ; his 
horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday 
nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and 
the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have 
settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mode 
of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights- 
errant of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod was too 
conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter 
the lists against him : he had overheard a boast of Bones, 
that he would " double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on 
a shelf of his own schoolhouse " ; and he was too wary 
to give him an opportunity. There was something ex- 
tremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left 
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical 
jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whim- 
sical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. 
They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out 
his singing school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into 



The Legend of Bleep y Hollo tc. 347 

the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fasten- 
ings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything 
topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began to think 
all the witches in the country held their meetings there. 
But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportu- 
nities of turning him into ridicule in the presence of his 
mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine 
in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of 
Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without pro- 
ducing any material effect on the relative situation of the 
contending powers. On a line autumnal afternoon, Icha- 
bod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool 
whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little lit- 
erary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre 
of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed on three 
nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; 
while on the desk before him might be seen sundry con- 
traband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the 
persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, pop- 
guns, whirligigs, fly- cages, and whole legions of rampant 
little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some 
appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars 
were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering 
behind them with one eye kept upon the master ; and a 
kind of buzzing stillness reigned about the schoolroom. It 
was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in 
tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment 
of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back 
of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with 
a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the 
school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- 
making or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at 
Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message 
with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, 
Avhich a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the 
kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering 
away, up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of 
his mission. 



348 The Sketch- Bo oh. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, 
without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped 
over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a 
smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken 
their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were 
flung aside without being put away on the shelves, ink- 
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early 
emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and 
indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by 
a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school- 
house. That he might make his appearance before his mis- 
tress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse 
from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric 
old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Kipper, and, thus 
gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in 
quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true 
spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks 
and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he 
bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had out- 
lived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt 
and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; 
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with 
burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and 
spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in 
it. Still he must have had lire and mettle in his day, if we 
may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, 
in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric 
Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very 
probably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old 
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurk- 
ing devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 349 

the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like 
grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his 
hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion 
of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. 
A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his 
scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of 
his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such 
was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they 
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was 
altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with 
in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- 
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- 
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped 
by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 
scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their 
appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might 
be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and 
the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the 
neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and 
frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
from the very profusion and variety around them. There 
was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling 
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twitter- 
ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden- 
winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black 
gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its 
red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro 
cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in 
his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes ; screaming 
and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pre- 
tending to be on good terms with every songster of the 
grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with de- 



350 The Sketch- Book. 

light over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he 
beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive 
opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar- 
rels for the market : others heaped up in rich piles for the 
cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian 
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, 
and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding ; 
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up 
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- 
pects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed 
the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the 
bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole 
over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and gar- 
nished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled 
hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the 
Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here 
and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the 
blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds 
floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. 
The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually 
into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue 
of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody 
crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the 
river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of 
their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, 
dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging use- 
lessly against the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky 
gleamecl along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was 
suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a 
spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, 
blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 351 

Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, 
long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scis- 
sors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on 
the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their 
mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or per- 
haps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. 
The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupen- 
dous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an 
eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the 
country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the 
hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a 
creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and 
which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, 
noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of 
tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, 
for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a 
lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious dis- 
play of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine 
Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. 
Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost 
indescribable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch 
housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the ten- 
derer oly koek, and the crisp crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes 
and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the 
whole family of cakes. And then there were apple-pies 
and peach-pies and pumpkin-pies ; besides slices of ham 
and smoked beef ; and moreover delectable dishes of pre- 
served plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to 
mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with 
bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, 
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly 
tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — 



352 The Sketch-Booh. 

Heaven bless the mark ! I want breadth and time to dis- 
cuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on 
with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so 
great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to 
every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and 
whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do, with drink. 
He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as 
he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one 
day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury 
and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his 
back upon the old schoolhouse ; snap his finger in the face 
of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, 
and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should 
dare to call him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions 
were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the 
hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing 
invitation to "fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, 
or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old 
gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra 
of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His 
instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater 
part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accom- 
panying every movement of the bow with a motion of the 
head ; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with 
his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him 
was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full 
motion, and clattering about the room, you would have 
thought Saint Vitas himself, that blessed patron of the 
dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the ad- 
miration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all 
ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 353 

forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and 
window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their 
white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from 
ear to ear. How could the fiogger of urchins be otherwise 
than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart was his 
partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all 
his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten 
with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one 
corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat 
smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former 
times, and drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly-favored places which abound with 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line 
had run near it during the war ; it had, therefore, been the 
scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, 
and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had 
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with 
a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his 
recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
witli an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was 
an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a 
mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of 
White plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried 
a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he abso- 
lutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the 
hilt : in proof of which he was ready at any time to show 
the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several 
more that had been equally great in the field, not one of 
whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand 
in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in 
legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and supersti- 



354 The Sketch-Booh. 

tions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats ; 
but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that 
forms the population of most of our country places. Be- 
sides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our 
villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their 
first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their 
surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbor- 
hood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk their 
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This 
is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts 
except in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of su- 
pernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to 
the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in 
the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infect- 
ing all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
were present at Yan Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling 
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and 
wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the 
unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in 
the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the 
woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights be- 
fore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief 
part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spec- 
tre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had 
been several times of late, patrolling the country ; and who, 
it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in 
the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, 
from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine 
modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the 
shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to 
a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between 
which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hud- 



The Legend of /Sleepy Hollow. 355 

son. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sun- 
beams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there 
at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the 
church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a 
large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. 
Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the 
church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road 
that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by 
overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the 
daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This 
was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ; 
and the place where he was most frequently encountered. 
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbe- 
liever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from 
his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up 
behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over 
hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the 
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old 
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops 
with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvel- 
lous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gal- 
loping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on 
returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing 
Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that 
he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and 
should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse 
all hollow, but, just as they came to the church-bridge, the 
Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them 
in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, 
Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that 
had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and 
fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about 
Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 



356 The Sketch-Boole. 

gathered together their families in their wagons, and were 
heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over 
the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions 
behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter 
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually 
died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all 
silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, accord- 
ing to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with 
the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high 
road to success. What passed at this interview I will not 
pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- 
ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly 
sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite 
desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh these women ! these women ! 
Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish 
tricks ? — Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue 
all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? — 
Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod 
stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen- 
roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to 
the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which 
he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and 
with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most 
uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he 
was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and 
oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- 
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
Tarrytown, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the 
afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below 
him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste 
of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, 
riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush 
of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch- 
dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so 
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from 
tins faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 357 

long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, 
would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away 
among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his 
ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally 
the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural 
twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleep- 
ing uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. 
The night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to 
sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid 
them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and 
dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place 
where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been 
laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip- 
tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of 
the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its 
limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form 
trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the 
earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with 
the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been 
taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the 
name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded 
it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of 
sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly 
from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations 
told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle : he thought his whistle was answered — it was but 
a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he 
approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something 
white hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused and 
ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrowly, perceived 
that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by 
lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge 
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the 
breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay 
before him. 



358 The Sketch-Booh. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough 
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, 
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild 
grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this 
bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot 
that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the 
covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen 
concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been 
considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings 
of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; 
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his 
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 
dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting for- 
ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, 
and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears 
increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, 
and kicked lustily with his contrary foot : it was all in 
vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge 
to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both 
whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, 
who dashed forward, snuffing and snorting, but came to a 
stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly 
sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this mo- 
ment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the 
sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, 
on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, 
misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed 
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready 
to spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was 
now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escap- 
ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon 
the wings of the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 359 

of courage, lie demanded in stammering accents — " Who 
are you " ? He received no reply. lie repeated his de- 
mand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no 
answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with invol- 
untary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy 
object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble 
and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. 
Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the 
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He 
appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and 
mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made 
no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on 
one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old 
Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and way- 
wardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody 
and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was 
mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted 
for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the 
figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gi- 
gantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror- 
struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — but his 
horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, 
which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried 
before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to 
desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon 
Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his 
companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump with 
him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; 



360 The Sketch-Booh. 

stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's 
flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long 
lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of 
his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a 
demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, 
and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road 
leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a 
quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in 
goblin story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on 
which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he 
had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the sad- 
dle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He 
seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, 
but in vain ; and he had just time to save himself by clasping 
old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the 
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. 
For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath 
passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; 
but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard 
on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he was !) he had 
much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one 
side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the 
high ridge of his horse's back-bone, with a violence that he 
verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflec- 
tion of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him 
that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church 
dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the 
place where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disap- 
peared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought Icha- 
bod, " I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed 
panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fancied 
that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the 
ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thun- 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 361 

dered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite 
side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his 
pursuer should vanish according to rule, in a flash of fire 
and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his 
stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. 
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too 
late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash 
— he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpow- 
der, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a 
whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping 
the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his 
appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Icha- 
bod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled 
idly about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. 
Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about 
the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was 
set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon 
his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church 
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of 
horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at 
furious sj:>eed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on 
the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran 
deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Icha- 
bod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained 
all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a 
half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted 
stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty 
razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dog's ears ; and a 
broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting 
Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England 
Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in 
which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and 
blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of 



362 The Sketch-Book. 

verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to 
the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who from that time for- 
ward determined to send his children no more to school ; 
observing, that he never knew any good come of this same 
reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster 
possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day 
or two before, he must have had about his person at the 
time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. 
The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of 
others, were called to mind ; and when they had diligently 
considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms 
of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to 
the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the 
galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's 
debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The 
school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, 
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of ghostly adventure was received, brought home 
the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he 
had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin 
and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at hav- 
ing been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had 
changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had 
kept school and studied law at the same time, had been ad- 
mitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written 
for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of 
the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after 
his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina 
in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly 
knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and 
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the 
pumpkin, which led some to suspect that he knew more 
about the matter than he chose to tell. 



Postscript. 363 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was 
spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite 
story often told about the neighborhood round the winter 
evening tire. The bridge became more than ever an object 
of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the 
road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse 
being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be 
haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and 
the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer even- 
ing, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a 
melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of 
Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in 
which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient 
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and 
most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly 
humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, 
— he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly 
from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the 
greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry- 
looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a 
grave and rather severe face throughout: now and then folding 
his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as 
if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary 
men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — when they have 
reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of 
the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned 
one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, 
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, 
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, 
and what it went to prove ? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 
lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 



364 The Sketch- Book. 

at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the 
glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended 
most logically to prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it: 

" That therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, 
that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little 
on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he 
had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I 
don't believe one-half of it myself." 

D. K. 



L'ENVOY.i 



Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the 
Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence 
with which his first has been received, and of the liberal 
disposition that has been evinced to treat him with kind- 
ness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be 
said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly 
gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each has in 
turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount 
almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he 
has been consoled by observing, that what one has particu- 
larly censured, another has as particularly praised ; and 
thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, 
he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond 
its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been lib- 
erally bestowed upon him; for where abundance of valua- 
ble advice is given gratis it may seem a man's own fault 
if he should go astray. He can only say, in his vindication, 
that he faithfully determined, for a time, to govern himself 
in his second volume by the opinions passed upon his first; 
but he was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of 
excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the 

1 Closing the second volume of the London edition. 



366 The Sketch-Booh. 

ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; a third assured 
him that he was tolerable at description, but cautioned him 
to leave narrative alone; while a fourth declared that he 
had a very pretty knack of turning a story, and was really 
entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was grievously 
mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of 
humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in 
turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world 
beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels 
would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time 
sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck 
him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being 
miscellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not 
be expected that any one would be pleased with the whole ; 
but that if it should contain something to suit each reader, 
his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit 
down to a varied table with an equal appetite for every 
dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another 
holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third can- 
not tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl; 
and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sove- 
reign contempt on those knick-knacks, here and there dished 
up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its 
turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does 
a dish go away from the table without being tasted and 
relished by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his 
first; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here 
and there something to please him, to rest assured that it 
was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself ; 
but entreating him, should he find anything to dislike, to 
tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has 
been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous 
faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how 
little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of 
authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffi- 



L> Envoy. 367 

dence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds him- 
self writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public 
which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to regard 
with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full 
of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that very 
solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and de- 
priving him of that ease and confidence which are neces- 
sary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which 
he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time 
he may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, 
half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good 
fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. 



APPENDIX 



NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the 
dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, 
Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo- 
Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, con- 
ceived a fancy for the race, and determined to send missionaries 
to preach the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. 
He was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of 
Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had mar- 
ried Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter of the king of 
Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full exercise of 
her religion. 

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of 
religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman 
monk, with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canter- 
bury, to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through 
him a foothold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the 
open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of 
spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as 
good a Christian as his wife ; the conversion of the king of course 
produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and suc- 
cess of Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop 
of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the 
British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, 
king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at 
London, of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had 
come over with Augustine, was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the 
river side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of 
Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of West- 
minster Abbey. Great preparations were made for the consecra- 
tion of the church, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On 
the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded 
with great pomp and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On 
approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who informed 
him that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. 



Appendix. 369 

The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to 
relate, that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, 
St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to con- 
secrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle accord- 
ingly went into the church, which suddenly became illuminated. 
The ceremony was performed in sumptuous style, accompanied 
by strains of heavenly music and clouds of fragrant incense. 
After this, the apostle came into the boat and ordered the fisher- 
man to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous draught of 
fishes; one of which he was commanded to present to the bishop, 
and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the 
necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirma- 
tion of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and 
beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil sprinkled in various 
places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had 
still any traces of lingering doubts, they were completely re- 
moved on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which he 
had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To resist this 
would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop 
accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been con- 
secrated by St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained from 
proceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King 
Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious 
house which he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church 
and built another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were 
deposited in a magnificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a re- 
construction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its 
present appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. 



RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers 
of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the 
sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the 
bones of Edward the Confessor after they had quietly reposed in 
their sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, aud of his drawing 
forth the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. 
During eighteen years that he had officiated in the choir, it had 
been a common tradition, he says, among his brother choristers, 
and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of King 
Edward was desposited in a kind of chest or coffin, which was 



370 The Sketch-Boole. 

indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his 
memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured 
upon a nearer inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his 
curiosity, mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder and found 
it to be made of wood, apparently very strong and firm, being 
secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in 
the coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a 
hole appearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the 
workmen. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred 
depository of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the cir- 
cumstances came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. 
He forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, 
of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspecting the tombs. 
Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and found, as 
had been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches long and 
four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in 
his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from underneath 
the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed to a 
gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his in- 
quisitive friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out 
of the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very 
sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full 
of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a 
coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin, 
white linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked indifferent 
fresh; but the least stress put thereto showed it was well-nigh 
perished. There were all his bones, and much dust likewise, 
which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human 
pride than the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently 
pulled about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to 
grin face to face with him through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and 
chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise 
him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, 
and fearing that the "holy treasure" might be taken away by 
other hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the 
shrine about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence 
again drew forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his 
knees to King James. The king subsequently had the old coffin 
inclosed in a new one of great strength: "each plank being two 
inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where 
it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no 
abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a descrip- 
tion of it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," 
says a British writer, "now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. 



Appendix. 371 

A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid 
mortar catches the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor. . . 
Only two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is 
much broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away 
in every part within reach; only the lozenges of about a foot 
square and rive circular pieces of the rich marble remain." — Mal- 
colm, Lond. rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE SKETCH. 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his 
second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret 
Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble 
family; for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters vir- 
tuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which 
her many Bookes do well testify : she was a most virtuous, and 
loving and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his 
banishment and miseries, and when he came home, never parted 
from him in his solitary retirements. 



In the winter-time, when the days are short, the service in the 
afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine 
of the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the 
cathedral and the transepts are in profound and cavernous dark- 
ness. The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep 
brown of the open slats and canopies; the partial illumination 
makes enormous shadows from columns and screens, and darting 
into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there upon a sep- 
ulchral decoration, or monumental effigy. The swelling notes of 
the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in 
the old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in 
their white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes 
through the abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up 
angles and arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving 
all behind in darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a 
distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which 
a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. 
It is a mural monument of one of the Pultneys. 



NOTES. 

Some English classics require close annotation and crit- 
ical verbal, analytical, and textual study, in order that they 
may be fully understood and appreciated. The Sketch- 
Book is not of this class. It needs but light annotation — 
oftentimes a mere reference, question, or suggestion — since 
it contains few obscurities or subtleties requiring expo- 
sition. 

The following notes are not intended to supply the 
student with information which he can readily procure for 
himself, nor to deprive him of the wholesome benefits and 
scholarly habits which are to be acquired through system- 
atic use of the ordinary books of reference. The ambitious 
student will often prefer to master his difficulties in his 
own way, and such self-dependence is an earnest of the 
future scholar. 

Many of these notes have not hitherto appeared in any 
edition of the Sketch-Book, so far as the editor is aware ; 
others have been used in numerous editions until they have 
become common property. The editor has availed himself 
freely of all material within his reach. To have searched 
for the original commentators in order to give credit in 
each case, would have been an affectation of erudition and 
scholarship quite outside the purposes of this unpretentious 
volume. 



Page 9. eftsoons. — Quickly; speedily. 

9. Lyly's Euphues. — John Lyly (1553-1609) was a celebrated 
writer of the Elizabethan period. He won fame by his novel 
"Euphues" in 1579 and afterwards became a dramatist. The 
distinguishing marks of his writings are extravagant language, 
studied mannerisms, abundant antitheses, fanciful conceits, super- 
ficial allegory, and repartee. The word "euphuism," which has 
been applied to this style of writing, is taken from the name of 
Lyly's novel "Euphues," in which he first popularized and prop- 
agated this kind of prose literature. 

372 



Notes. 373 

9. In the early authorized editions of the Sketch-Book the fol- 
lowing quotation from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy was 
printed on the title-page: " 1 have no wife nor children, good or 
bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men's fortunes 
and adventures, and how they play their parts; which, methinks, 
are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or 
scene." 

9. my native city. — Read chap. XXII. of Todd's The Story 
of the City of New York, published by Putnams. Read pp. 23-25 
of Warner's Washington Irving in American Men of Letters Series. 

9. town=crier. — Consult the Century Dictionary and the 
Standard Dictionary. Read Holmes's The Last Leaf. 

11. for I had read in the works of various philosophers. 

Read Irving's English Writers on America, p. 53 of this book; also 
Lowell's paper On a Certain Condescension in Foreigyiers. 

11. St. Peter's, or the Coliseum, etc. —Consult Hawthorne's 
The Marble Faun, chapters 17, 38, 39; Byron's Childe Harold, canto 
IV. ; also T. B. Read's poem, Drifting. 

The Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the 
religious edifice erected in the time of Constantine. It is the 
most famous church building in the world. Consult the encyclo- 
paedias. 

The Coliseum was a vast amphitheatre in Rome, built about 
the beginning of the Christian era. It was used for public pur- 
poses about five hundred years, and was the greatest popular 
resort that Rome ever had. It was partly destroyed by the over- 
flowing of the Tiber in the year 555. Consult the encyclopaedias. 

Terni is a town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for 
the Falls of Velino — a cascade of remarkable volume and beauty. 

" No other place in the world combines within the same com- 
pass so much natural beauty with so many objects of interest to 
the antiquary, the historian, and the geologist, as the Bay of 
Naples." 

12. a lengthening chain. — See Goldsmith's The Traveller, 
line 10; also the first paragraph of his third letter in Citizen of 
the World: "The farther I travel I feel the pain of separation 
with stronger force: those ties that bind me to my native country 
and you, are still unbroken. By every move I only drag a greater 
length of chain." 

13. I said that at sea. — Commentators have pointed out the 
melody and rhythm of this paragraph and the two or three 
succeeding ones, and have compared them with the sounds of 
the paragraph beginning "I confess," on p. 16. 

15. across the banks of Newfoundland. — One of the 

greatest and most celebrated fisheries in the world. 



374 The Sketch-Booh. 

17. As we sailed up the Mersey. — A river in the county of 
Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine estuary before reach- 
ing the sea at Liverpool. 

19. Roscoe. — See Allibone's Dictionary of Authors and the 
encyclopaedias. 

20. the Medici. — Consult the encyclopaedias on this title. 
The volume by Roscoe, alluded to by Irving, is one of the books 
of the Bohn Library, Macmillan & Co., agents for America. 

25. Pompey's column. — Consult Chambers's Encyclopaedia, 
under "Pompey's Pillar." 

34. Diedrich Knickerbocker. — See Irving's Knickerbocker's 
History of New York from the Beginning of the World to the End 
of the Dutch Dynasty. 

34. By Woden, God of Saxons . . . 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep . . . 

Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy. — This whole 
introduction to Rip Van Winkle is in as fine a vein of rich, quaint 
humor as is to be found in American literature. 

35. a Queen Anne's farthing. — One of the rarest of English 
coins; hence, eagerly sought for by coin collectors, who preserved 
them with great care. 

35. Kaatskill. — Catskill, a range of mountains in Eastern New 
York. 

35. Appalachian family. — Referring to the range of moun- 
tains extending from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Alabama, and 
including the White, Green, Adirondack, Catskill, and Alleghany 
mountains. 

35. Peter Stuy vesant. — The last of the Dutch governors of 
the colony of New Netherlands, now New York. Consult the 
Cyclopedia of American Biography ; also Knickerbocker" 1 s History 
of New York. 

36. province of Great Britain. — The English under the Duke 
of York took control of New Netherlands, and changed its name 
to New York. 

36. Fort Christina. — A Swedish fort, situated five miles 
north of what is now Newcastle, Delaware. It was besieged and 
captured by the Dutch of New Netherlands, under command of 
Governor Stuyvesant, in 1655. 

36. henpecked husband. — Note the derivation and etymol- 
ogy. In what consists the appropriateness of the composition of 
the word " henpecked " ? 



Notes. 375 

36. curtain lecture.— What is the meaning? Why called a 
curtain lecture? 

37. galligaskins. — A kind of leggings or wide breeches, 
supposed to take their name from the Latin words caligtB Vas- 
conum, meaning hose worn by the people of Gascony. 

38. terrors of a woman's tongue. — See Shakespeare's 
Taming of the Shrew, Act I, Scene 2: 

" Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? 
And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, 
That gives not half so great a blow to th' ear 
As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? " 

38. gallows air. — With the appearance of one about to be 
hanged; a " hang-dog " look. 

39. George the Third. — Ascended the English throne in 1760, 
and reigned sixty years. 

39. dapper. — Neat, trim, tidy. 

39. junto. — A select, deliberative assembly. 

39. virago. — A turbulent woman, a scold, a vixen. 

40. wallet. — A kind of knapsack or bag, suspended by a strap 
thrown over the shoulder. 

41. jerkin. — A jacket, short coat, or upper doublet, much 
worn in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 

41. amphitheatre. — Literally, a place for looking about. 

42. doublets. — A close-fitting garment, covering the body 
from the neck to below the waist. 

42. hanger. — "A short broadsword worn from the girdle, 
and slightly curved at the point." 

43. Hollands. — Holland gin. 

43. flagon. — A vessel for holding liquids. The term is usually 
applied to a vessel for liquors. 
43. roysters. — Blustering, uproarious, turbulent fellows. 

45. red night=cap. — " During the French Revolution the red 
cap was regarded as the symbol of liberty. Irving represents the 
villagers as having erected a liberty-pole with a red cap on its top, 
and flung the American flag to the breezes, thereby celebrating the 
recently-acquired independence of the country." 

46. phlegm. — Dulness, sluggishness, stupidity. 

46. Babylonish jargon. — Babylon is supposed to have stood 
on the spot where the Tower of Babel was built; unintelligible 
talk, gabble. 



376 The Sketch- Book. 

46. Federal or Democrat. — The names of the two political 
parties of that day. At the time of the formation and adoption 
of the Federal Constitution, the party favoring it was called the 
Federal party and the party opposing it was called the Democratic 
party. These parties also held opposite views on the general 
questions of foreign and domestic policy of the nation. 

47. Tory* — The conservative or royalist party of England. 
During the Revolution, one who favored Great Britain was called 
a tory. 

47. Stony Point. — A promontory on the Hudson River, forty- 
two miles north of New York. A fort on this promontory was 
captured from the British in 1779 by general Anthony Wayne, 
better known as " Mad Anthony." 

47. Anthony's Nose. — The name of another rocky headland 
on the Hudson, fifty-seven miles from New York. For an inter- 
esting account see Irving's Knickerbocker's History of New York. 

49. Hendrick Hudson. — "A distinguished English navigator, 
who made four voyages, attempting to find a shorter passage to 
China than by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. On the third 
of these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay, 
and (Sept. 11, 1609) sailed up what is now the Hudson River. 
During his fourth voyage, two years later, he penetrated the 
straits and discovered the great bay of Canada which now bears 
his name. Here his mutinous sailors cast him adrift in a small 
boat, and left him to die." 

51. narrated with his usual fidelity. —The "Note" and 
Postscript are in the same vein of quaint humor as the intro- 
duction to Bip Van Winkle. 

53. English Writers on America. — In this connection read 
Lowell's essay On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners. 

53. flethinks I see. — This well-known quotation is from 
Milton's Areopagitica, an essay on the freedom of the press, rec- 
ognized as one of the great masterpieces of English prose. 

67. The Flower and the Leaf. — This is a rather pretty poem 
in seven-line stanzas. The language is that of the fifteenth cen- 
tury. It professes to be written by a gentlewoman, but most 
critics assign the authorship to Chaucer, as does Irving. It is an 
allegory written to celebrate the marriage of Phillipa, John of 
G aunt's daughter, with John, King of Portugal. The poem con- 
tains many beautiful passages. 

72. Young E . — Robert Emmet. Consult the encyclope- 
dias; also Pierre Irving's Biography of Irving, vol. I. p. 420. 

73. a late celebrated Irish Barrister, — John Philpot Curran. 



Notes. 377 

80. The Paradise of Daintie Devices. — For an interesting 
account of this curious work, see Hazlitt's Bibliography of Old 

English Literature. 

82. this learned Theban. — Consult the works of reference, 
especially the Century Dictionary. 

85. — Have you not seen the nightingale. — The poem from 
which this selection is taken maybe found in Percy's Reliques 
of Ancient English Poetry, vol. II. Book the Third, p. 32G. It is 
an excellent old song, and was preserved in David Lloyd's Mem- 
ories of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I. 

88. his perpetual blindness. — Read Milton's sonnet On II is 
Blindness, and Wordsworth's sonnet on Milton. 

89. Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall. — For 

this poem see Chambers's Cycloxjedia of English Literature, vol I. 
p. 39. 

93. has made it a universal study. —The reference is to 
Scott's novels. 

96. Vaucluse. — Consult the Enclyclopedia Britannica. 

97. Beggar's Bush. — For an interesting account of this curi- 
ous old song, see Hazlitt's Bibliography of Old English Literature. 

100. it was one long Lord Hayor's day. — " The day for the 

inauguration of the Lord Mayor elect of the city of London, was 
formerly marked by much festivity and display, the latter of a 
tawdry sort. Always a popular holiday, it has brought down 
from remote centuries a characteristic ' procession ' of which 
mention is made in a later ' sketch.' The student is advised to 
secure a copy of the Illustrated London News, Nov. 11 and 18, 
1893, or to send to S. Marks and Sons, 72 Houndsditch, Bishops- 
gate Street, London, for their Panorama of the Lord Mayor's 
Show, price about sixpence. See the New York Evening Post 
of Nov. 9, 1893." 

103. The Widow and Her Son. — Irving wrote the introduc- 
tory part for the first edition of this " sketch " as follows. Com- 
pare this with the form in the text*. " During my residence in 
the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. 
Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken 
panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed 
to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in 
the country, is so holy in its repose, such a pensive quiet reigns 
over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed 
down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently 
springing up within us. 

" 'Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky!" 



378 The Sketch-BooJc. 

" I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; but 
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beau- 
tiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else; and if 
not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than 
on any other day of the seven. 

" But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon 
the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around 
me." 

107. press=gang. — Read Thomas Hood's poem, Faithless Sally 
Brovm, noting especially the second stanza. 

113. Mother Bombie. — For an account of this curious and 
interesting old piece, written by John Lyly, consult Hazlitt's 
Bibliography of Old English Literature. 

125. Doomsday Book. — The student should consult the 
books of reference, especially Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and 
Fable. 

128. Robert Groteste. — Consult Morley's English Writers for 
an account of this author and the other obscure and forgotten 
writers mentioned in this connection. 

131. Sir Philip Sidney. — This charming but much neglected 
author and the other authors here mentioned are treated in 
Saintsbury's History of Elizabethan Literature. 

133. knew little of Latin and nothing of Greek. —Un- 
doubtedly based on Ben Jonson's well-known remark of Shakes- 
peare's knowing "little Latin and less Greek." But the truth 
seems to be that Shakespeare was a well-educated man. 

135. as in the case of Chaucer. — Chaucer is best read in the 
original form. Any "resetting" or modernizing of his writings 
robs them of their beauty and takes away their charm. This is 
equally true of most of the other early writers. 

152. all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. — Con- 
sult the Encyclopedia Britannica, vol. x., p. 525. 

155. with Saus und Braus. — With roar and tumult. 

167. Westminster Abbey. — One of the world's most famous 
and most ancient cathedrals, extremely rich in historic associa- 
tions. It is in the form of a Latin cross, 511 feet long and 203 
feet wide. It was the first cruciform church in England. All 
the English sovereigns from Edward the Confessor to Queen Vic- 
toria, have been crowned in this cathedral. It contains the tombs 
and monuments of many of the sovereigns of Great Britain, and 
the memorials of England's greatest men in all the walks of life. 

167. Westminster School. — One of the three most celebrated 
English schools. It was chartered by Henry VIII. in 1540. 



Notes. 379 

167 the cloisters. — The cloisters were begun by Edward the 
Confessor and finished shortly after the Conquest. They are the 
arched passages running about the interior court. 

167. verger. —The official who takes care of the church 
building. 

168 The gray walls. — " There is one religious structure in 
the kingdom that stands in its original finishing, exhibiting all 
those modest hues that the native appearance of the stone so 
pleasingly bestows. This structure is the Abbey Church of West- 
minster'. . . . There I rind my happiness the most complete. 
This church has not been whitewashed:' — John Carter. 

168 mural monuments. — The memorials of the dead to be 
found about the walls and nearly everywhere about the interior 
of the Abbey. 

168. death's heads. — Naked human skulls personifying death. 
168. keystones. — The topmost stones of the arches. 

168 effigies. — " It was once a feature of the great funerals 
to have a waxen effigy of the deceased person on a platform 
highly decorated with black hangings. It remained for a month 
in the abbey, near the grave; but in the case of sovereigns a much 
longer time. The effigies here referred to are, of course, ot 
stone." 

168. Vitalis . . . Crispinus . . . Laurentius. 

" Vitalis was a Norman. He was an abbot at Bernay in Normandy, 
and was expressly sent for by the King (William the Conqueror) 
to govern at Westminster. He had the character of a wise and 
prudent man. He died June 19, 1082, and was interred in the 
south cloister." ^ T - , , 

" Gislebertus Crispinus (Gilbert Crispin) was a Norman of noble 
rank He was particularly famous as a sound theologist and a 
ready disputant. After a long life of piety and good deeds, he 
died Dec. 6, 1114, and was buried at the feet of Vitalis, hisprede- 

cessor " 

"Laurentius (or Lawrence) was educated, and resided for many 
years, at St. Albans. He was chosen for Westminster Abbey 
about the year 1159, through the influence of Henry II., who 
thought highly of him. He was a man of talents. He was ap- 
pointed by the King, the Pope, and the Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, to decide several disputed causes. He was buried in the 
south walk of the cloister." 

169 Poet's Corner. — To the student of literature the most 
suggestive and interesting portion of the Abbey Read Victor 
Hugo's William Shakespeare, Part Third Book I chap. 2. 
Chaucer was the first to be buried in Poet's Corner, through the 
royal favor of Henry IV. 



380 The Sketch- Book. 

170. that fabled city. — The reference is to one of the stories 
of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. 

171. all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters vir= 
tuous. — This is a portion of the inscription on the tomb of the 
Duke and Duchess of Newcastle. 

172. rirs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. — 

"In memory of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, Esq., of Mine- 
head, Devonshire, who died in 1752; and the Lady Elizabeth, his 
wife, who died soon after marriage. A tradition of the Abbey 
records that a robber, coming into the Abbey by moonlight, was 
so startled by the figure as to have fled in dismay, and left his 
crowbar on the pavement." 

" Roubillac (1695-1762) was an able French sculptor, born at 
Lyons. He settled in London in 1720, and soon became the most 
popular sculptor of the time in England. His chief works in the 
Abbey are the monuments of Handel, Admiral Warren, Marshal 
Wade, Mrs. Nightingale, and the Duke of Argyll." 

172. Henry the Seventh's chapel. — Henry VII. determined 
to found at Westminster a chapel more magnificent than that he 
had designed at Windsor, a greater than the Confessor's shrine, 
" in order," according to his will, " right shortly to translate into 
the same the body and reliques of his uncle of blissful memory, 
King Henry VI.," but the chapel became the chapel not of Henry 
VI. but of Henry VII. It is the most signal contrast between 
his closeness in life and " his magnificence in the structures he 
hath left to posterity." His pride in its grandeur was commem- 
orated by the ship, vast for those times, which he built, " of 
equal cost with his chapel, which afterwards, in the reign of 
Mary, sank in the sea and vanished in a moment." 

173. Knights of the Bath. — In the reign of George I. a per- 
manent change was effected in one of the accompaniments of the 
coronation, — namely, the Knights of the Bath. In the earlier 
coronations it had been the practice of the sovereigns to create a 
number of knights before they started on their procession from 
the tower. These knights, being made in time of peace, were not 
enrolled in any existing order, and for a long time had no special 
designation; but, inasmuch as one of the foremost, striking and 
characteristic parts of their admission was the complete attention 
of their persons on the vigil of their knighthood, as an emblem of 
the cleanliness and purity of their future profession, they were 
called Knights of the Bath. The king himself bathed with them. 
They were completely undressed, placed in large baths and then 
wrapped in soft blankets. The distinctive name first appears in 
the time of Henry V. 



Notes. 381 

173. the sepulchre of its founder. — Edward the Confessor 

(1004-1060). He acceded to the throne in 1042. He rebuilt the 
ancient Abbey of Westminster. 

174. the haughty Elizabeth . . . and unfortunate nary. — 

Elizabeth (born in 1533) reigned as Queen of England from 1558 
to 1603, when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was 
called "the lionhearted Elizabeth." James I. had the body of 
Queen Elizabeth taken from the Cathedral Church of Peterbor- 
ough, and a monument erected over her in Westminster Abbey. 

Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V. of Scotland, was 
born in 1542. She was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having 
entered into a conspiracy against the life of the latter, and ordered 
to be executed. Queen Elizabeth signed the death warrant on the 
1st of February, 1587; and on the morning of the 8th of February, 
Mary Queen of Scots, protesting her innocence, was beheaded. 

174. her national emblem the thistle. — The Thistle of Scot- 
land. The conquering Danes thought it cowardly to attack an en- 
emy by night, but on one occasion deviated from their rule. On 
they crept, barefooted, noiselessly, and unobserved, when one of 
the men set his foot on a thistle, which made him cry out. The 
alarm was given, the Scotch fell upon the invaders, defeated them 
with terrible slaughter, and drove them from Scotland. Ever 
since the thistle has been adopted as the insignia of Scotland, with 
the motto, Nemo me impune lacessit "No one tramples upon me 
with impunity." 

175. The great chair of coronation. — The celebrated Stone 
of Scone. Edward I. removed to London, and placed in West- 
minster Abbey, the great stone upon which the kings of Scotland 
had been crowned. It is said to have been brought to Scotland 
from Ireland by Fergus, son of Eric, who led the Dalriads to the 
shores of Argyllshire. It was brought from Scotland to West- 
minster Abbey in 1296, and the English coronation chair was es- 
pecially constructed for its reception. It has been constantly used 
at coronations ever since. The coronation takes place while the 
sovereign is seated in this chair. The last time it was brought 
out from the chapel where it stands was at the Jubilee Thanks- 
giving service (June 21, 1887), when the Queen sat in it during the 
ceremonial. The stone of Scone has been called Jacob's Pillow 
from the legend that it was the pillow upon which the patriarch 
slept when he beheld the vision of the ladder reaching to heaven. 

177. Pharaoh is sold for balsams. — Formerly mummies 
were highly valued for their supposed medicinal properties. 
They were ground into powder and formed one of the ordinary 
drugs found in the apothecary shops. It was commonly pre- 
scribed by physicians. 



382 The Sketch-Book. 

179. Christmas. — Christ and mass (Anglo-Saxon Moesm, a 
holy day), the Christian festival of the Nativity. The festival 
properly begins on the evening of December 24, and lasts until 
Epiphany, January 6, the whole being termed " Christmas-tide." 
December 25 is the day specifically observed. 

179. Hue and Cry after Christmas.— Written by Ben Jonson. 

179. Old Song. — From Guild Hall Giants, by Thomas Hood. 

180. the season of Advent. — The season of moral and relig- 
ious preparation, between St. Andrew's Day (November 30) and 
Christmas. At one time it was observed as strictly as Lent. 

180. Good=wilI to men. — No war was declared and no capital 
punishment inflicted during this season of good-will. 

183. the sound of the Waits. — Originally a kind of night- 
watchman who sounded the hours and guarded the streets ; 
later, a musician who sang out of doors at Christmas time, going 
from house to house. 

185. Omne bene. — A free translation : 

" There's a time for hard playing, 
With nothing to fear. 
Drop books without delaying — 
The hour is here." 

186. Bucephalus. —The horse of Alexander the Great. 

188. Cyclops. — The cyclops, according to Greek mythology 
and story, were a race of stalwart giants with one eye in their 
foreheads : hence their name (Greek Jeuklopes, kvJclos, " a circle," 
and ops, " eye "), the round-eyed. They forged the thunderbolts 
of Zeus, the trident of Poseidon, and the Helmet of Pluto. The 
allusion is to their size and strength as gigantic blacksmiths. 

192. Chesterfield. — An English statesman and author, re- 
nowned as a model of politeness. He is best known by his Let- 
ters to Ms Son, written for the improvement of his manners. 
These letters have been often republished, and they afford a good 
idea of the mental and moral calibre of the author. 

193. stomacher.— An article of dress, usually rich in material 
and ornament, for the breast and stomach, having the gown or 
doublet laced over it; worn in the fifteenth and seventeenth 
centuries. 

195. Charles the Second's time. — Charles II. (born 1630) 
was proclaimed king by the Scottish Parliament in 1649. He 
landed in Scotland in 1650, and was crowned the following year. 
He marched into England against Cromwell, but was defeated at 
Worcester in 1651. 



Notes. 383 

196. the twelve days of Christmas. — The period between 
December 24 and January 6. 

197. Christinas candles. — " Christmas was called the ' Feast 
of Lights ' in the Western or Latin Church, because they used 
many lights or candles at the feast ; or, rather, because Christ, 
the Light of all lights, that true Light, came into the wo Id : 
hence the Christmas candle. 1 ' 

202. a lofty tester. — The canopy over an old-fashioned bed. 

205. grandee. — A Spanish nobleman. 

206. That soiles my land. — Gives my land a, soil; i. e., en- 
riches the soil, thus insuring a plentiful harvest. 

207. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert. —The author of The Book of 
Husbandry — the first published work on agriculture in the Eng- 
lish language. 

211. like old Cremona fiddles. — Cremona is a city in Lom- 
bardy, once celebrated for its fine violins. Great prices were 
paid for them. 

214. Squire Ketch.— Jack Ketch, the hangman, who executed 
Lord Kussell, the Duke of Monmouth, and many others. 

220. Caput apri defero. 

Reddens laudes Domino. — 

" I bring the boar's head, 
Returning praises to the Lord." 
Qui estis in convivio.— 

" As many as are at the banquet." 

230. pirouettes and rigadoons. — Peculiar, whirling dances, 
gay and brisk in character. 

242. nother Shipton by heart. — Mother Shipton lived in the 
reign of Henry VIII. , and was famous for her prophecies in 
which she foretold the death of Wolsey, Lord Percy, etc., and 
many wonderful events of the future times. All her " prophe- 
cies " are still extant. 

243. wonderful events had already occurred. — Consult 
Knight's Popular History of England, Vol. VIII. 

255. Shakespeare's mulberry=tree.— Consult the Encyclope- 
dia Britannica, under "Stratford." 

256. Santa Casa. — The phrase is from the Italian and means 
" the holy house." The reputed house in which the Virgin Mary 
lived at Nazareth, miraculously translated to Fiume, in Dalmatia, 
in 1291, and thence to Eecanati in 1294, and finally to Macerata, 
in Italy, to a piece of land belonging to the lady Loretto. Hence 
the name, " The Santa Casa of Loretto." 



384 The Sketch-Book. 

273. Logan. — The name has come to be applied to the Ameri- 
can Indian, as "John Bull" designates the Englishman, and 
" Brother Jonathan " the American. Consult the Cyclopedia of 
American Biography under " John Logan." 

303. beyond the sound of Bow=belIs. — Bow Church, or the 
church of St. Mary-le-Bow, is nearly the centre of the city of 
London. Hence to be born within sound of Bow-bells is to be a 
true cockney. Bow Church has long had one of the most celebra- 
ted bell-peals in London. John Dun, mercer, gave in 1472 two 
tenements to maintain the ringing of Bow-bell every night at nine 
o'clock, to direct travellers on the road to town; and in 1520 Wil- 
liam Copland gave a bigger bell for the purpose of " sounding a 
retreat from work." 

316. the once popular rites of flay. —Bead Tennyson's The 
May Queen. 

323. Complete Angler. — A most charming book and a master- 
piece of English literature, written by Izaak Walton. The book 
reveals so much of the author and his quaint, genial, sportsman- 
like spirit, that it becomes of biographical interest. 

330. quadrant. — An instrument for taking the altitudes and 
distances of the heavenly bodies. 

332. Castle of Indolence. — James Thomson, author of the 
poem, was the son of a Scotch minister. Thomson, in his clay, 
was one of the most widely popular poets in our language, and he 
is still much read. His best and most popular work is The Sea- 
sons, a work which gave him a great reputation. 

332. Tappan Zee. — Irving called this the " Mediterranean " of 
the river. It is the first and largest expansion of the Hudson. 
This "sea" and its surroundings are rich in romantic and historic 
associations and legendary lore. 

332. St. Nicholas. — The mariner's saint, and patron of those 
who lead a seafaring life. He is also regarded as the especial 
patron of the young, and particularly of scholars. 

332. Tarrytown. — A Dutch village of considerable antiquity, 
among the hills on the Hudson, twenty-seven miles from New 
York. It is famous both historically and from its connection 
with Washington Irving, whose celebrated cottage, "Sunnyside," 
is in the vicinity. These lines appeared in the New York Evening 
Post of December 1, 1859, with the following editorial intro- 
duction : " The beauty of the day on which Mr. Irving's funeral 
took place, and the charming aspect of the surrounding country, 
in the glorious sunshine which then closed our long Indian Sum- 
mer, have prompted the ensuing lines, which we have from the 
pen of a friend of the departed author, himself eminent in the 
world of letters : " — 



Notes. 385 



SUNNYSIDE. 

BY HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 

The dear, quaint cottage, as we pass, 
No clambering rose nor locusts hide ; 

And dead leaves neck the matted grass, 
And shadow rests on Sunnyside : 

Not by the flying cloud-rack cast, 
Nor by the summer foliage bred, 

The life-long shadow which the Past 
Lets fall where cherish' d joys have fled. 

For he whose fancy wove a spell 
As lasting as the scene is fair, 

And made the mountain, stream, and dell 
His own dream-life forever share ; 

He who with England's household grace, 
And with the brave romance of Spain, 

Tradition's lore and Nature's face, 
Imbued his visionary brain ; 

Mused in Granada's old arcade 

As gush'd the Moorish fount at noon, 

With the last minstrel thoughtful stray'd 
To ruin'd shrines beneath the moon ; 

And breathed the tenderness and wit 
Thus garner'd, in expression pure, 

As now his thoughts with humor flit, 
And now to pathos wisely lure ; 

Who traced with sympathetic hand, 

Our peerless chieftain's high career; 
His life, that gladden' d all the land, 
And blest a home — is ended here. 

What pensive charms of nature brood 
O'er the familiar scene to-day, 

As if, with smile and tear she wooed 
Our hearts a mutual rite to pay! 

The river that he loved so well, 
Like a full heart, is awed to calm; 

The winter air that wafts his knell 
Is fragrant with autumnal balm. 



386 The Sketch- Book. 

A veil of mist hangs soft and low 
Above the Catskill's wooded range, 

While sunbeams on the slope below 
Their shroud to robes of glory change. 

How to the mourner's patient sight 
Glide the tall sails along the shore 

Like a procession clad in white 
Down a vast temple's crystal floor. 

So light the haze, its floating shades, 
Like tears through which we dimly see, 

With incense crown the Palisades, 
With purple wreathe the Tappan Zee. 

And ne'er did more serene repose 

Of cloud and sunshine, brook and brae 

Round Sleepy Hollow fondly close, 
Than on its lover's burial day. 



The End, 




: 



